Hymn for the Killers and Liars
by Sly-TazZ
Summary: Abandoned and accused of crimes she did not commit, a young woman with strange abilities is condemned to Arkham Asylum for life. Will she find freedom as she is hurled into the hellish chaos around her?
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ This idea sprang in my head randomly during school. Naturally I thought "IDEA! :3" and wrote it down. Of course, the moment I wrote this, I really had no idea what I was going to do with it. SO, it sat on my computer for the longest time… Then I played Batman: Arkham Asylum. :3 I got to thinking about this lil' old file, and decided that this would blend perfectly with the game! So yeah… this is a fanfiction about the daunting Arkham Asylum and the disturbing characters within. Of course you need some type of romance-able character (heh, sounds like something out of Dragon Age…), so it will lean towards Jonathan Crane/ Scarecrow… Ah, I'm rambling! Hope you enjoy! :3 Feedback is always loved!_

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Prologue/

The guard that roamed the dank corridor took a deep sigh. Underneath his uniform sweat began rush out of his pores. He pulled off his hat momentarily and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead; he pulled back in disgust when his hand was thickly damp with his own perspiration. He placed his hat back atop his head and glanced around. The luminescent lights that used to light the halls were dim, a few flickering spastically. The rooms, not too different from jail cells, were all closed, and dangerously vacant. The guard knew for an absolute fact that this was one of the worst combinations of 'schizos' placed in one part of the asylum. His eyebrows knitted together at the thought of all of the being locked behind the doors, and moved his foot nervously.

Down the hallway to the end was a door; it was far different, much more secure from the other doors. Inside, the walls were stitched with padded fabric that covered the metallic walls. The floor was supported with a thick plastic –an excuse for a carpet – and a bed was squished against a wall in the far left corner. The one window was barred both horizontally and vertically, and the metal was so closely packed, few rays of the moonlight faded into the room.

A shadow swept across the room from one wall to the other. As the shadow crept past the encaged window, the light glimpsed over a girl. She was in her early to mid twenties, appearing to weigh a healthy weight. Her hair was a mess, her black ringlets twisting and bending unevenly. Her complexion was a light peach, a calming blend with her hazel eyes. Her lips were a light pink, pulled back into a grimace.

Her gaze traveled from the locked door to the window. Oh, how she wished to be free once more. It was painful to be locked from the world like she was. Sure she was never accepted into the society like she had always wanted, but she had freedom. Her independence was what kept her alive and going, making her days enjoyable enough to survive through. But being clocked into an enclosed room, and not allowed to leave the building. . . It was taking its toll on her.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the sea; at first she remembered the soft breeze that brushed against her. The smell of sand and salt water filled the air like an intoxicating herb, cleansing her body. Then the feeling of the sand slipping through the cracks of her toes, the water that splashing and flooding around her legs. She tried to imagine the ocean itself; she wanted to see the sun's ray reflect off of the water, creating the most prefectural image. But as the sun began to rise behind her eyelids, so too did the cold metals bars. Not only had the hospital she was in cage her from the outside, but it caged her imagination of the outside as well.

_How long has it been since I've seen the city?,_ she asked herself thoughtfully. _How long has it been since I could see something without reading about it in the newspaper first?_...

A knock on the door shook her from her unconscious state. She walked over to her bed and sat down; she had wished she could have told them to go away, but they always came in anyway. Her opinion didn't matter in this place.

The door, after a series locks unbolting, creaked as it opened. The dim light from the hallway cast a long and plump shadow across the floor, stretching over the girl. At first the person was only seen as a silhouette before it moved aside. With a click, the luminescent light flickered to life in the small room. The girl was momentarily blinded, but blinked back the black dots that shrouded her vision.

The person was none other then Igorus Valthenspoon. He, like his grotesque shadow, was plump, a beer belly hanging over his belt buckle. His expensive jacket clung to his skin tightly as if it was a size too small. Igorus was short, maybe about 5'1". His stump legs were lost in his baggy dress pants, his fancy leather shoes squeaking as he stepped forward.

He placed his meaty hands into his pants pockets as he examined the girl. The girl merely scowled at him silently, balling her hands into tight fists.

"Hello," he finally said after a small gulp. He smiled awkwardly, as if he was worried he would smile too much. His right foot glided across the floor uneasily. "I've come here to see if you have improved."

The girl rolled her eyes dismissively. "That so?" she asked. It was now realized she had a light Irish accent.

"Indeed," he murmured. "I need you to be nice today and let the guards…"

Before he could finish, the girl stood up. "Yeah, yeah I know the way how it goes. Just bring the damn guards in already," she grumbled. The man, frightened at first from her quick movement, nodded his head and waddled aside. Two guards, too muscular for the girl's taste, stepped in. They walked over to the girl and grabbed her shoulders. She obediently gave in to them, and allowed them to handcuff her hands behind her back. . .

In minutes, she was back where she felt she had started. She was in another small room, only one wall was a gigantic mirror. Of course the girl knew that's where the impudent roaches of cops watched her from the other side, but she wasn't crazy enough to try to break it to get to them. Or at least not yet, anyway.

A different man that she wasn't familiar of sat down in the chair before her. The two of them sat opposite of a white table, old and creaked whenever any of them made the slightest movement. Beside the man was a black suitcase. _Black? Well that ruins the whole white on white combination in this hell-hole,_ the girl thought bitterly. Meanwhile, she combed through her hair with her fingers, enjoying the fact that she was no longer handcuffed.

The man cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses. The lights reflected off of the lenses momentarily, hiding his chestnut eyes for a mere second. In the light the girl could see that his brown hair was relatively dry, though it smelled of a feminine scent. _His wife must have chosen his shampoo,_ she thought comically, then grimaced at the fact that she had paid attention to it. The fact that she was figuring out how his hair status was was preposterous.

The man cleared his throat once more, and cupped a packet of paper in his hands. "Ayyss-" he began before the girl cut him off.

"It's ASH-ling," she corrected.

He let out a short sigh. "Right. It's ASH-ling Mae O'Haney then," he pronounced. His eyes quivered from the paper to the girl before him momentarily.

She nodded. "It's spelt correctly on the page if you're wondering. It's just spelt different. It's Irish, you see. It's spelt A-I-S-L-I-N-G, but the 'i' and the 's' are pronounced as a 'sh'," she explained, crossing her arms and tilted into a slouching position in her chair.

He nodded. "Hello Aisling. My name is Dr. O'Connor. I, too, am Irish," he stated as if trying to light the mood. But like most cases in a situation where you're in a room with a 'skitzo' who isn't in the brightest moods, it didn't get him far. Taking note that his joke wasn't appealing to the dark-haired girl, he gulped down the saliva that built in his throat and continued. "I'm sure you know why I'm here, don't you?" he asked. She only nodded; after a brief break of silence, he continued. "If it's okay with you, I would like for us to take a couple of tests. . ."

A smile broke across Aisling's hollow expression. "Sure," she agreed. "Though I don't think my opinion implies anything in this situation, now does it?" she questioned, shifting her hands to emphasize her words.

"Of course it does," the Doctor half-lied, half truthfully answered. Sure her answer mattered, that is, if she was going to try and kill him.

She rolled her eyes. "Come on. Let's get this over with, shall we?" Her eyes drifted to the mirror for only a brief second, an expression of disgust reflecting back at herself. Aisling was fully aware of the people that sat in those chairs, and it twisted her gut at the thought of them.

Two men and a woman sat down on creaky chairs on the other side of the wall. The man who appeared to be the oldest was Mr. Brandon Krutchangas. He was tall and too thin for his age. Underneath his dusty suit, his skeleton was more apparent then fat or muscle. His face was aged and wrinkled, no trace of hair on top of his head. He leaned forward on the seat, his pointy elbows resting on the long counter before him. His graying eyes were enlarged through his small spectacles, his lips cracked and pale. He was the man who had owned this asylum for nearly twenty-five years.

At age 10, all Brandon ever wanted was to become a weatherman. Funny as it sounded, (even to himself sometimes) that was the biggest goal he ever wanted to accomplish. Every morning he would wake up before the sun and watch the news with his family just to see the weatherman. He seemed so serene, so nice. In his own way, the weatherman was like a God, proclaiming what the weather would be like.

By the time he was 19, he realized his news-casting ideals were over with. He took up the job as a local carpenter, and worked on houses until his hands felt like they could fall off. His hands, once fine and perfect for light practices like writing and drawing were now battered and scarred by the cuts and bruises he had received as a carpenter. When he was fired, he did the only thing he could think of; he took over one of his families businesses: the St. Andrew's Hospital.

Now at the age of 57, the old man didn't dream anymore. He just took day by day, pill by pill. He got through a day by just being there, no memories of yesterday, or thoughts of tomorrow. He was a lonely man who just wanted to finish up what was left of his being.

The next man was Joseph Jean, or 'J-Jay' as most called him. He was the man that dressed in the finest of clothing, stylizing himself more then his own 22 year-old wife. He was plump like Igorus, only he had an average height. Under his fedora, his brown hair was thinning; his mustache faded to gray (if it weren't the fact that he had it dyed every two weeks).

Most of his life he was spoiled with his father's wealthy background, enriching him with his selfish personality. When his father lay dying in a hospital, it was then that Joseph was kicked out of his father's deed and was refused his share of the money. Now he clung to this mental hospital in hopes he could make a fortune out of it. But all he was getting right now was a suitcase of over expensive suits to wear and an enormous pool of debt to jump into.

The last was the woman. Her name was Sara Angolia. Rich accent, rich culture. She even came directly from the Bahamas a few years ago. She was known as the assistant of J-Jay, but everyone knew her story.

Sara was born and raised in the Africa for most of her life. Around her, vile and immoral issues coiled around her like a snake. She married and had a child, but fled only years after. Supposedly her husband was a treacherous man, and abused her horribly. And like most immigrants, she came to the Americas in hopes to have a new and better life. However, she had never expected to be working for a low life in a God-forsaken dump. In a matter of speaking, of course.

Dr. O'Connor leaned back in his old chair, flinching as it squeaked too loudly for his taste. Truth be told, he was tense out of his wits. He had heard rumors about this Aisling before him, and it really rattled his nerves. "The first game is quite simple," he began, smiling as pleasantly as he could. "I will say a word, and you have to say a word that comes to your mind first after you hear what I say."

She nodded.

"Okay." He parted his lips to breath out a short sigh. _She's cooperative, at least,_ he thought anxiously. "Let's start off easy. . . Apple."

"Apple," she repeated, muttering the word quickly escaping her mouth. He was shocked to hear that she had reacted so quickly, before he realized what she had said.

"You're supposed to say something different," he explained.

She nodded. "I know," she said calmly. Dr. O'Connor couldn't recognize any emotion in her gray eyes.

_Gray._ For a second, Dr. O'Connor felt confused. Were her eyes gray? Weren't they _hazel_? A tingling of fear washed through him as he moved his gaze to her eyes in a sharp movement.

Surrounding her small pupils, a colorful arrangement of blues, green and grays circled around with a dazzling hint of golden brown found in the center. _False alarm_, he thought to himself, relieved. He returned to the paper in his hands and sighed.

"Black," he continued, pretending like he didn't just have a minor episode of wariness.

"Red."

He nodded in approval. _We're getting somewhere, I hope_, he thought with some enthusiasm. "How about. . . danger-"

"Trick."

This baffled Dr. O'Connor. "Trick?"

Aisling nodded. "Trick. Y'know. . . _magic trick_." The way how she said those words sent a chill down the doctor's spine.

Dr. O'Connor gulped. Behind the mirror, Brandon moved uneasily. A tingling sensation of both fear and worry overcame him, as if someone had just poured a bag of ice down the back of his shirt…

"Do you hear voices, Aisling?" the doctor asked somewhat discretely. _Were the walls moving. . . twitching?_ Dread filled his mind, and he found himself shaking. . . cowering. From what, though?

Aisling tipped her head slightly. "Hear voices? No,"

The moment she whispered her answer, sounds rebounded off the walls around the doctor. They were human, or at least he recognized them as human. There were a few, speaking in different octaves. They seemed to be the same, but at the same time so strangely different. The doctor's blood ran cold and he jumped at the noises. He spun around frantically, searching for the source of the noise. But all he could see were the bland, white walls of the enclosed room.

"Doctor?" Aisling questioned. Her voice was playful; mischievous. The other voices chimed in with her own, echoing around in his head. He jumped again, too horrified to speak. His lips parted only enough to let out a shuddering breath. "Doctor? Doctor O'Connor?" Aisling's voice demanding now, her eyebrows knit together over her eyes.

_Magic trick,_ the high-pitched voice chimed delightfully to the doctor's left. _Blood, _a dark voice murmured to his right. _Life's no fun without some magic!, _a light voice gurgled behind him. . .

"ENOUGH!" The room fell silent and motionless. Aisling glanced at the doctor and sighed. The doctor sat motionless in his chair. His eyes were wide open, his jaw slack. He was petrified, too scared to move. Satisfied, Aisling stood up, brushing her hair to the side. She turned to the mirror, watching herself as she spoke. "I believe the doctor is done," she murmured, hiding a morphed smile. In minutes, two guards came to the door. They stared at her in denial, before they snatched her arms and brought her back to her cell.

J-Jay walked solemnly into the cell and stepped next to Dr. O'Connor. His fingers were pressed on his neck only briefly before he pulled aware, dread stricken on his face. "He's dead," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Heart attack."

Sara stepped beside J-Jay, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the man. The corpse, or what they used to know as Dr. O'Connor, was completely frozen. His face was still faced forward, staring at the spot where the young girl once was. His skin was pale enough to look a light blue, his perspiration frozen to his skin. "What will we say to his family?" she asked, her shock hidden behind her strong accent.

J-Jay turned to her, and shrugged. "A psycho escaped earlier this evening. Unaware of what was going on, he was stabbed," he muttered. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a cloth and wiped his face.

Sara was shocked. "But, sir, he has no knife wounds!" she exclaimed.

J-Jay turned away from her and sighed. He searched his other pocket, and pulled out a tiny object. It was small; the only detail was a gigantic shape that resembled a button. He tugged at one side, shifting a tiny blade into view; a switchblade. He placed it in Sara's clammy and sweaty hands. "That's why you are going to do." With that said, he left the room, leaving Sara alone in the room with the dead Dr. O'Connor.


	2. Chapter I: Condemned

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ I'm sorry that I didn't post this earlier. It's pretty lame of me to post that I'm writing story, and I didn't even bother to submit the first chapter! So yeah, here's the first chapter! Hehe… I'll just let you read it now… ._

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter I: Condemned/

_The woman was unnaturally calm as the guards steered her into the room where the doctor was seated. Her black hair was tangled, swooping across her face as she walked. She sighed softly as she adjusted her arms in the guards' grips. She glanced to her left to see the familiar face of Victor. He was one of the very few guards that handled her with kindness, one who sought to make her feel better without actually asking. His green eyes were gentle when he glanced at her, a ghost of a smile on his features. Aisling had figured he was a husband, a long-time family man. He was always sweet with the younger girls in the hospital, not like some type of pedophile but as an extra guardian or a part-time father._

_As they approached the door, Victor released her to open it. Aisling turned to the other guard, watched how his grip tightened around her revealing arm. When there were good people, there were always bad. This one, nameless to Aisling, worked strictly for the money. He did not converse with the cops, did not associate with any of the patients. The cautious type that anyone who is a patient is deemed as a threat._

_The paranoid type that breaches protocol in hopes of defending himself, Aisling thought with a smile as she thumbed the knife that was stowed in his pocket. She had slipped it into the waist band of her slacks completely unnoticed, snuggled it against her right hip before she was ushered into the room._

_After seated, Dr. O'Connor began the same crap as doctors have always done in this room. Pronounced her name wrong, told her that he was going to ask her a few questions. Naturally, she corrected him, agreed she would – even if she didn't have any choice in the matter._

_The "Word" game. How enjoyable. Aisling had no idea why a doctor would use such a ridiculous method such as this. Did they think that it would somehow reveal what was troubling the patient? Like out of the blue, they would say "rape" in response to describe what has disturbed them so? If anything, it was something to waste the time with._

"_Trick." She wasn't paying attention to him anymore, and was spouting out words. However, this seemed to have puzzled the doctor. She perked a brow when he repeated the phrase. "Trick. Y'know. . . magic trick."_

"_What does that have to do with _danger_?" he asked._

_Did Aisling sense… impatience from him? "To tell the truth, I have no idea," she admitted dully. Her eyes flickered back to the glass wall and watched her own figure in the glass._

_Dr. O'Connor clutched his forehead. "In order for this to work, Aisling, we need your cooperation," he sighed._

_Aisling crossed her arms, rolling her eyes melodramatically. "Forgive me for being bored of this charade of responding to words."_

"_What would you have me do, then? Give you a Rorschach test?"_

"_Oh yes, because blots of ink will definitely reveal something. How about you ask questions. Don't doctors usually _ask_? Do _something_, because you're wasting my time." She sounded angry, her hands balled into fists._

_Dr. O'Connor's eyebrows knit in worry. "Okay. I'll ask some questions, then." His hands shook as he opened a manila folder that lay in front of him. His attention was focused on the paper, attempting to steer his attention away from her hardening eyes. "How have you been feeling lately?"_

"_Wonderful, Doc!" she replied sarcastically. "Apart from being locked in a cage from the world, that is. And being hustled around by brutes, being told that I'm a psycho every day. Oh, don't forget that every night I'll go to sleep knowing that I'll be going through the same crap tomorrow."_

"_Are you not enjoying your stay here? Is there something specific you don't enjoy? Maybe I could help you feel better."_

_Her eyes flicked to his hands, glimpsing at the small golden band on his finger. "You're a married man, Doc," she stated coldly._

"_That's not what I –"_

"_Be careful of what you suggest. And make my _stay_…" She grinded her teeth when she said the word. It wasn't an appropriate term for her situation. A prison or cage, but not a stay; that would make it sound like she had the choice to leave. "I hear the weather is pretty good for this time of the year. It would be nice to know there's a world out there than just this hell."_

"_I'm afraid that can't be allowed, Aisling. That would be breaching –"_

"_Protocol? Yeah, I know that already. And will you stop calling me that? You make it sound like we're friends."_

"_I'm sorry, but I don't understand. Are you offended by me calling you by your first –"_

"_Ask the question you really want to ask, doctor." Her voice chilled him, his heart pumping faster with fear. His lips parted as if to speak, but he said no words. "No?" She leaned forward on the chair, her crossed forearms pressing against the small table that separated them. "Fine. I'll ask it." The next second, she was launching herself at the doctor. She was nimble, quick, and soared over the top of the table. Dr. O'Connor cried out in shock, too late to defend himself. His chair toppled over, his back slamming against tiled flooring over with a loud bang._

_He gasped when her knees crashed on his chest. Her hands clawed at his neck, and he struggled against her grip. She was unbelievably strong, her fingers coiling around his throat. He didn't give up, though. He smacked her hand away, punching in the air towards her face. After four times of slicing the air, he heard the satisfying sound of bone colliding with bone. It hurt like hell, but it was gratifying to see her rear back in pain._

Snick.

_That was perhaps the most horrifying noise Dr. O'Connor had ever heard before he was killed. The soft sound as the switchblade she held snapped open. He didn't see it, but he could feel the small blade press against his neck. Whatever fight he had in him drained, his body gone limp. His gaze was transfixed on Aisling's face. Her once-managed hair was in a messy tangle, hazels eyes glowing ominously._

_She was breathing heavily and it took a few moments before she could relax. She was straddling the doctor's hips, straightening her back so she could look down at him. The blade that she had stolen from the guard had found a nice spot of flesh on the doctor's neck. "Do I hear voices? That's what you wanted to ask, right? They always ask that." As she rambled, a dark and vicious grin painted on her features. "Well, I'll tell you what I told every single doctor before you. The answer is no. No, I do not hear voices. The _only_ voice I hear is my own." She pressed harder on the knife, and smirked when the doctor whimpered. "Then why did I do the things I did, you are probably wondering. Why I ended up in this hospital, classified as a schizophrenic._

"_Because I wanted to. Because I choice to destroy everything. There was no one whispering in my ear to do it, no persuasion. Does that make me crazy, Doc?" He didn't reply to her; he just seemed to sweat more, even begin to cry. Aisling always found it revolting when a grown man cried._

"_P-please," he begged. Oh, now he was _begging_. Pleading for your own life was such a selfish act._

_She stabbed him then. The blade burrowed into his flesh above his pelvic bone. He screamed first, but as it elongated, it morphed into a sob. He was crying underneath her, tears pouring from his eyes that were squeezed shut. Aisling watched him, like a cat watching its prey. She watched the gold band glimmer in the light of the fluorescent lights. "What will we tell them?" she asked. Her voice was incredibly soft, like she was picking flowers, not assaulting someone._

"_W-who?" he gasped. Another scream had curdled in his throat, his midsection alit with enormous pain._

"_Your children." Aisling watched the blood drip-drip from the switchblade in her hand. "What will we tell them when you're dead?" She stabbed him again, this time into his abdomen. His cry echoed off the walls, along with the sucking noise as she tore the blade from his flesh and stabbed him again. And again. And again. It was long after his body had gone limp did the guards smash through the locked door and drag her away from his bloody corpse._

Aisling was chuckling to herself as the guards hauled her from the room. She had always found it humorous when the guards would seize her by the arms and hoist her to the next area. It was a big part of their job, hustling the patients around and such, and they treated it rather irrationally. They elbowed, grabbed and shoved as if Aisling would decapitate them if her arms weren't locked behind her. Aisling, at first, thought it was unnecessary to fight with them, allowed them to push and pull her. After the dozen of bruises she received, it was decided that this was more of a push-and-pull relationship, so in order to keep herself from getting hurt, she had to put up some resistance.

That was what she did as they pushed her towards the "quiet room". That's what they called the padded room, anyway, but it wasn't because it was a padded room meant for patients that were out of control.

Aisling broke out in laughter as they shoved her into the padded room. She fell with a loud _thump_, awed by how squishy the ground felt. The door slammed shut, leaving Aisling in complete darkness. "Isn't this nice," she said aloud, and chuckled at her own voice. Oh, how she enjoyed her moments in this small cage. There wasn't anything grand about this padded room; just four walls, a ceiling with a floor covered in cheap padding. Aisling guessed that the padding was an invention of insulation stitched behind artificial leather. It was weathered down from sweat, saliva and God-knows what else it had encountered from crazed individuals. Most of all, it was _comfortable_. Compared to her rickety springs for a mattress, this room was a valley of fluffy pillows and feathery blankets.

Aisling crawled forward away from the doorway in the darkness until she reached the back wall. Pulling her knees to her chest, she lay on her side, the wall pressing lightly against her back. She wondered if her body would sink into the padded floor as she felt it give slightly underneath her weight. It made soft hissing noises as the air squished out underneath her. It was minutes after did she drift off into a light nap.

Outside of her lock-box, St. Andrews was being bombarded with media attention. Sara Angolia was the one who had called the police. She babbled into the phone as she was at the point of breaking down before J-Jay ripped the phone from her hand and told the police what happened. He reported that a doctor had been assaulted by a crazed patient.

When such an event such as this occurs in a rural town, it escalated beyond the boundaries of town and had reporters from neighboring cities swooping in cover the story. It was a very cliché incident, cops surrounding the hospital's premises, monitoring and authorizing who was allowed to enter the building. Reporters stood practically next to each other as they found a spot by the yellow CAUTION tape, holding their microphones close to their faces and saying the same things. "A small town shocked by murder" or "Outrageous murder disquiets a peaceful community." All the same crap, the glows of the recorders like dozens of fireflies in the night.

Knowing that, it wouldn't be a surprise that Aisling was disturbed from her peaceful nap. Still caught in the comforting delusions of sleep, she failed to notice the yelling that echoed through the hallway towards her cell. But as the metal door bashed against the wall when swung open, she was jarred to consciousness. She picked her head up sharply only to be blinded by the fluorescent lighting. Struggling to correct her splotchy vision, she was grabbed roughly by the arms and was hauled to her feet. The next thing she knew, she was shoved out of the cell, arms dragging her across the tiled flooring.

"-hell?" she managed to say coherently.

As her vision cleared, she glanced at her capturers. They were clearly some of the employees, dressed in the gaudy bland uniforms. Aisling noted the condition of the clothing, and examined the expressions on their faces. They weren't looking at her, but glaring ahead, focused on something Aisling had not known yet. They were frustrated, obviously, but Aisling could tell it was not because of her. Perhaps they were working overtime, which explained the unusually massive amount of sweat that had stained their clothing. Stay late at the hospital knowing that when they come home, their dinner will be cold and their wives already asleep.

"Taking me anywhere special?" she asked rather soothingly. "I hope it's enjoyable. You two disturbed me from my nap." She frowned when they didn't answer her, but continued to trudge her forward. "No response? You could at least give me a hint," she joked.

When the dragging ended, Aisling looked forward. She damned-near swore in disappointment at the sight of seeing "J-Jay's" plaque on the wooden door in front of her. Why on Earth did she need to see _him?_

The door slammed loudly behind them as the guards hauled her into J-Jay's office. Aisling always had this idea of what she would see whenever she would enter. She imagined that as she entered, a strong smell of expensive leather and powerful cologne would sting the insides of her nose. Situated in front of the door would be his desk, covered in ridiculous trinkets that he picked up from booths and stands. J-Jay would be sitting in his chair, turned so only the back of his expensive leather seat would be seen. He would kick his chair around; reveal a cheeky expression with his hands folded over his protruding belly. His suit would be cleaned so much that the folders would be crisp and bend in perfect angles. His fedora would lay on his lap, one of his plump thumbs fiddling with the leather band.

But as she looked upon the desk, she was instead faced with someone entirely different. Leaning forward with his hands clasped together in front of his face, Brandon Krutchangas seemed to have aged twenty years. His haggard expression and sunken gray eyes were a daunting sight, even unsettling as his gaze fixated on the woman in front of him. At seeing her, he straightened his bony back, still keeping his closed hands on the desk. "Thank you for bringing her here," he muttered. "You may leave."

Like that, Aisling's arms were no longer pinned behind her. She shrugged away from the guards and watched as they neared the door. "Shut the door." His gritty voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she returned her gaze to the man.

"Mr. Krutchangas," she sighed with a light smile. "What honor do I have to be in your presence?"

There were only a few people that could unnerve Aisling, but Brandon was one of the rare individuals that could penetrate her barrier. His gray eyes felt like _knives _in her flesh. "Something terrible has occurred over these past few hours, Aisling." His skeletal hands clutched to the cherry stained desk. "Something that will greatly affect you."

Something like fear seeded the pit of Aisling's stomach. "Sounds like something you would get out of a fortune cookie," she joked.

"This is no time for games," he snapped, a spark of fury Aisling did not know still existed in such an aged body like his.

She crossed her arms, an arrogant stance that she rarely used. "No? What's going –"

Aisling was interrupted when the door behind her swung open. It collided against the dresser nearby, sending a vase spiraling to the ground, shattering ceramic pieces across the carpeted floor. J-Jay stomped into the room, his round face flushed. He froze when he saw Aisling, his eyes narrowing into little slits. Behind him were… police officers? Why were police officers here?

J-Jay pointed a finger at her, a scowl painting across his features. "There she is! The murdering bitch!" he roared. For a second, Aisling really believed that he was going to throw himself at her with the way how he rushed forward. _Murdering?_ That didn't sound right. Not at all.

The officers pushed the man aside and stormed forward. She didn't have time to react when they grappled her, bended her arms behind her back. But when she heard that _click_ of the handcuffs snapping around her wrists, some sort of realization dawned on her. That feeling that had seeded in her stomach a few moments before had flourished, consuming ever cell her body. Panicked, she struggled against the cops that held her.

"What the fuck!" she seethed. She attempted to twist her body, try to get out of their holds.

One of the police officers jerked at her wrists, causing her to stumble against him. "Aisling O'Haney, you are being arrested for the assault and murder of Doctor Martin O'Connor."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she snapped. "He died of a heart attack for Christ's sake!" Her fiery glare snapped from the cop to the man she despised. "You were there!" she growled. How dare they convict her of such a crime!

"You sadistic bitch!" J-Jay snarled. His red face was inches from her as he yelled in her face. "You killed Dr. O'Connor in cold blood!"

"I didn't touch him!"

"You have the right to remain silent," the officer continued, tugging at her cuffed wrists harshly. "Anything you say can and will be used –"

"Is that so? When you stabbed the man, when you bleed him to death!"

_"Stabbed him?" _ Aisling couldn't believe what she was hearing! "I didn't stab him – how could I have?"

"I'm surprised that you aren't stained in his blood!"

The officer who was giving her rights was forced to focus on holding her still as she struggled against their grasps. "How dare you accuse me –"

"She's far worse than I first expected," J-Jay ignored her. "She's far more delusional, far too dangerous for this clinic. For God's sake, she killed a doctor! Take her out of here!"

Maybe one day Aisling would have recalled this incident and would have applauded for Joseph Jean's wonderful acting. But as she struggled against the cops' grips, as they threw her into the back seat of a cruiser with her wrists restrained behind her back, all she could think of was how she wanted to rip the bastard's throats out. The car door slammed loudly, almost snapping on her ankle. She was swearing, ranting, yelling; she was doing about anything else that a severely pissed-off woman would do. At one point she even slammed her heel against the glass window before cursing in pain. It was an immature act, but it did manage to capture attention from the police. They nodded to each other, before two of them crawled into the driver and passenger seat of the cruiser.

"Hey, hey, hey! Calm down!" Apparently the cop in the passenger seat didn't like it when Aisling kicked at the metal barrier that separated them. "Keep acting the way you are and we'll be forced to give you a sedative."

"The hell you are!" she snapped.

He snorted. "Don't like needles? Then I suggest that you sit and be quiet like a good little girl," he sneered. Aisling didn't respond, but rather kicked at the metal behind his head. His scowl was quite humorous, but she was still fuming nonetheless.

"Listen here you –"

The driver held up a hand, silencing his partner. "Relax. Once she's at Arkham, we don't have to deal with her anymore. She'll settle down like the rest of them do."

Aisling wanted to kick at them in protest, but found herself quieted by his words. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parted and eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Arkham?" The anger that was billowing from her body subsided, fear taking its place once more.

"Got that right," the cop in the passenger seat chuckled. He removed his hat to comb through his hair with this fingers. "Damn, this is gonna' be a long ride." He gave a sour look at the sound of the cruiser's engine, growling as it came to life.

That was the last time that Aisling ever saw St. Andrews again. As the car steered out of the parking lot, her eyes were drawn to the blaring lights of the cop cars, the lights from the cameras glowing in the darkened night. There was a sense of doom, too, when the milky white exterior of the building disappeared as they drove away, the word _Arkham_ prodding at Aisling's mind.


	3. Chapter II: Protocol

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ Alright, so here's Chapter 2! :P I had other plans for this chapter, but then I started thinking: Okay, so this occurs, what? Around four/five-ish? It gets a whole bunch of media attention, so by nine/ten it's out of control. So Aisling is being sent to an asylum at that time, but after the drive it's around, what? Two/three in the morning. As much as I love writing snarky dialogue, I don't think anyone can function properly at three in the morning. So I made this chapter a little more realistic by, you know, making the character tired._

_ P.S. Thank you for the review/comment ShadowCat98. I was snickering the entire time when I read it! :P And don't worry, I'm not a fan of Bieber, either! His singing makes my brain hurt… a lot -.-)#_

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter II: Protocol/

Aisling was crammed into the back of the police cruiser for four hours, at least. Four hours of her sitting on an uncomfortable seat with her wrists clamped behind her. 240 minutes of a painful silence when the two cops couldn't decide on an agreeable station and kept the radio off. She didn't know what was worse: the boring car-ride or the destination they were heading to. The cops spoke with each other, but rarely, so Aisling drew her attention to the window beside her. There was nothing interesting to see, but at least the blurs of the objects passing were a decent distraction.

Her feet were aching. She wasn't about to complain about it, but it wasn't every day when someone kicks a metal barrier. She was still dressed in the ridiculously gaudy white uniform. The white t-shirt was baggy (like a one-size-fits-all type of garment), the slacks with the stretchable waistband uncomfortable and rubbed against her skin. The hospital was too cheap to get the socks with the rubber grippers, so they gave out plastic footies that made your feet sweat. She was practically barefoot, and she had cracked her heel pretty hard on the metal.

She absently massaged her right foot, flinching at how tender it was. It's definitely going to bruise, she thought grimly. Outside of the window, the YOU ARE NOW LEAVING sign glimpsed past in a green blur. "That's one good thing, at least." Her voice was acutely sour, even if she was speaking in relief. The cop in the passenger seat chuckled at her utterance, swung his arm around the back of his seat and gave her a jovial look.

"What's that?" he inquired. Under his cap, Aisling could see his bushy brown eyebrows raised.

She looked at him ludicrously. "I'm not in that hell-hole anymore," she responded slowly. Wasn't that an obvious answer? She thought. Or was it rare for someone to be glad to be out of a mental institute?

"Yeah, but you're leaving to go to another one," he replied smugly.

"Knock it off, Cole," the other cop sighed. "Why bother prodding her?"

The cop referred as Cole snickered. "Because it's fun, Henry. You should try it sometime," he joked. With his free hand, he gave the cop a light punch to the shoulder.

Aisling couldn't see Henry's face, but by the way how his head tilted, she figured he had rolled his eyes. "Yes, because pestering someone is _so entertaining._ Do us all a favor, Cole, and grow up." Aisling decided she liked this guy as she silenced herself from giggling.

Cole clutched his chest in mock humor. "You wound me, friend," he pouted. When his companion did laugh at his joke, his pout drooped to a frown. "What's twisted your briefs in a bunch, Henry? Your wife get mad when you didn't take the trash out again? Or did your kids keep you up all night?"

Henry glared at him. "Or maybe it's because I have a friend that doesn't know how to shut up," he retorted. "Tell me¸Cole. Do you ever plan on settling down?"

Cole gave him a goofy smile, and placed his hands behind his head. "Nope. I'm going to be a bachelor for the rest of my life!"

Aisling _laughed _at that. "What's so funny?" Cole piped defensively. Underneath his cap, she could see the slight tint of pink that glowed on his cheeks.

"Oh, nothing," she giggled. "I'm having a hard time picturing you as a _bachelor_."

"No one asked you! And what do you know? You're just a girl with a twisted mind."

Aisling's lips rounded into an "o" shape and her eyebrows knitted together. "Low blow," she noted, feigning a hurt expression. She saw the guilt that sparked in his face, and she relaxed her features. "Don't get so defensive," she added enjoying how evenly flat her tone became. She also enjoyed how flustered that made him, because he turned into a lovely shade of a tomato.

"How about we just continue this drive in silence?" Henry pitched after a few moments. His eyes flickered to the rear view mirror and caught Aisling's hazel eyes. It was nothing like a pleading look, but like a glare that a parent would give to a child for being disruptive. Aisling opened her mouth to retort something, but gave in and returned to looking out the window.

_Skeletal fingers danced off of her shoulders, tracing imaginary lines across her flesh. They were freezing, leaving a trail of ice that made her hair stand on end. She tried to pull away from their touch, but she couldn't move. Her arms were pinned to her sides, locked by some invisible force. She wanted to scream, cry out in fear. But the cold were knives stabbing into her flesh. It drew her breath short, strangled the scream from her throat before it could be produced._

_ Around her was complete darkness. It was the type of darkness that you couldn't even distinguish yourself from it, even if you waved your hands in front of your eyes. A thick black cage that devoured her as she struggled to keep her pounding heart calm, struggled to distinguish reality from her paranoid imagination._

_ Her feet were bare; she could sense that by how the frosty air tickled the skin between her toes. The floor was hard, flat and cold. A draft had skittered up her spine, hitching her breath short. She could feel no wall behind her, her hands locked mid-air._

_ She gasped as she felt liquid puddle around her feet. It oozed in between her toes and wrapped around her ankles. The instinct to move flooded through her body, and she struggled to move. But her feet were like her hands; frozen and locked in place. Her face felt wet, warm. Perhaps she was crying, but she couldn't see anything. Just the unforgiving darkness that had devoured her._

Click.

_The next moment, an explosion of light appeared before her. Red and yellow billowing towards her, streaks of orange and white rolling in the wave of color. Her hands were released and they swung at her sides. For some reason, she found comfort in the colors that raced towards her. She opened her arms wide as if to embrace it. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the light. But as it neared, she recognized an enormous amount of warmth. Intense heat that burned her flesh._

_ Fire._

_ She was no longer comforted, but terrified. She stepped backwards, went to turn around. Her feet squished loudly, drenched in whatever liquid that had covered them before. It stuck to her feet, webbing her heels to the floor. Panicking, she looked down. But what she saw made her gasp in horror._

_ Her feet were soaked in gasoline._

Aisling gasped out loud, her head picking up so fast that she smacked it against the window. She recoiled from the blow, clutching to her forehead, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She was practically hyperventilating, and it took a few moments for her to calm down. Still locked in the holds of the nightmare, she didn't recognize where she was, and struggled to stop herself from crying out. Only when did she see the back of Cole's head did she remember where she was: she was in the back of a police cruiser, traveling from one mental hospital to another. She was blamed for something she did not commit, but was deemed responsible nonetheless.

"Have a nightmare?" Henry asked. He was still driving, but he had taken his cap off. He had one hand on the wheel, the other in his clipped black hair. In the mirror, Aisling could see the dark circles under his eyes.

"Sort of." She rubbed her hand against her face, her fingers combing through her wild black hair. She wished that could comb through her brain, try to get the dark images that were floating around in her head.

"You were shuffling and muttering to yourself," he explained. "My kids act like that," he added. He ran a hand across his face, his forefinger and thumb circling around his eye sockets. "Whenever they have a nightmare, anyway. They flip around in their beds and knock off all the sheets before they yell. I swear, they're like alarm clocks at three in the morning."

Speaking of time – Aisling glanced at the clock on the radio and watched as it ticked to 2:37. "Would you have me scream to wake you up?" she asked. Her tone was strangely soft, considering how acidic it had been a couple hours ago.

He shook his head, a tired smile playing on his lips. "No thanks. It would probably wake this bastard up." He jabbed his thumb at the sleeping Cole beside him. He was slouched at an odd angle, his head resting on his arm and the passenger window. "Asshole. He fell asleep only a few minutes after you did."

"He was supposed to switch driving with you, I take it?"

He snorted. "Supposed to, anyway. But I guess him sleeping is better than him complaining. I hope he gets a cramp in his neck."

"How much longer?" she asked. She wondered how pleasing it would be to kick at the fencing again, see how much Cole would jump, but found herself too tired to move. Having no seatbelt on, she was curled quite comfortably on the seat.

"Only a few. We got into Gotham about ten – twenty minutes ago."

"Wonderful." Her tone was too soft and she felt too exhausted for her sarcasm to be effective.

Henry glanced at her through the rear view mirror. "It doesn't have to be permanent, you know." Aisling looked at him curiously, well, mildly interested anyhow. "Not everyone is sent to Arkham. Usually they send them to the Williams Medical Center. Others go straight to the Blackgate Penidentiary."

Aisling was not familiar with either name. "So? Does that mean I'm the sort of 'special' crazy, and they're taking me straight to the asylum?" Again, her sarcasm fell short due to her lack of focus on the world around her. Damn, had they slipped pills to make her this drowsy? Later, Aisling was going to replay the scenario in her head to see if there was something she might have missed.

"No. It's just… there was such scene at the hospital that they didn't know what to do. They didn't know how to handle the mess, and the only solution was send you as far away as possible from it."

"Send me away?"

"If you were sent to Blackgate or Williams, detectives would be able to investigate and interrogate before you were even assigned a room. Arkham is… more secure."

"I wonder why."

Henry was frowning. "Yes, it houses some horrible criminals. But you aren't being placed there to be thrown to the dogs (Aisling always found the cliché ridiculous, and she flinched when he said it). They're taking you there so you can be protected from media attention. There will be an investigation – there's no doubt about that – but it will be less stressful on your part."

She watched him carefully in the mirror. "I bet J-Jay wasn't another part of the _persuasion_." She was tired albeit, but she could still find hate inside of her drowsy. Her soft voice had become sharply edged, her hazel eyes narrowing into thin slits.

Henry attempted to feign confusion, but Aisling saw past his mirage. He knew _exactly_ who she was talking about; he just wasn't going to say anything about it. "Who?"

She blatantly ignored him, and looked out her window. "He was always such a dick. Bullied everyone around like he was the _Grandmaster_ or something. When he was pinned with blame, he would hide behind Krutchangas and hiss lies into his ear. Bastard always used that fat tongue of his to get himself out of trouble."

"Sounds like a horrid man."

He wasn't looking at her when he said it. She couldn't help but feel disgusted by how he tried to appeal to her after blatantly lying. She didn't respond to him, but allowed her gaze to drift towards the window once more.

"We're here."

Aisling looked up and felt the color drain from her face. Just outside of the cruiser, ARKHAM ASYLUM was barely visible on the metal fence. The gates were daunting as their cast shadow hung over the vehicle. Henry must have called into the intercom, telling that he was here with Aisling. Her eyes were locked on the gates, however. She didn't hear his voice echoing in the speakers, but heard the soft squealing noise as the gate opened. How the metal doors slowly opened to reveal an old gravel road, a set of old buildings peeking just above the tree tops in the horizon.

She felt somehow betrayed when she watched the two cops leave her. Cole was still drowsy from his nap, so he just kind of looked at her before he turned around. Henry wasn't any better. He simply tipped his hat towards her, said goodbye. Told her to follow protocol and she'll be fine.

Protocol. Yes, she definitely felt betrayed when she heard the word come from his lips. So there she was, walking towards a building with her hands still clamped behind her back. Behind her, a lone guard walked with her, his hand resting ever so slightly on his pistol. Not just that, but behind her, she knew she had at least one sniper trained on her. Henry wasn't kidding about security, considering they had at least four lookouts in the area they were in. As they neared the door, Aisling glanced at the wooden sign beside it. INTENSIVE TREATMENT. The guard muffled a yawn as he opened the door for her, allowing her first to enter.

Protocol, huh?

The rest was much of a blur to Aisling. It was three in the morning, and she was having a tough time trying to keep herself walking. The guard guided her down a long tunnel-like room. Cell Block Transfer, Aisling thought she saw. All she knew was that the guard spoke through an intercom, told them he had her with him, and a huge mechanical door opened in front of them. After what felt like miles of walking down a dimly-lit hallway, they came to another door that opened for them. Next they were in an elevator and descending. She tried to see if she could lean against the wall, close her eyes, but the guard prodded her out of the opened doors.

Outside of the elevator were two more guards, who took Aisling by the arms. Said something about giving her a cavity search, but decided it was too late. Aisling didn't look like she had any weapons on her, anyway. After all, she was only wearing an oversized t-shirt, crinkled slacks and plastic footies.

The next moment, she was sitting on a cool bench, awaiting for a doctor to examine her. Three had ticked to three-thirty, then four. The doctor pulled her into a small room about fifteen minutes after four and placed her on a chair.

"Hello AYS-ling." She was so tired that she didn't even catch how horribly the doctor had pronounced her name. "How are you feeling?"

Aisling's hazel eyes were clouded, lost in the deepening purple bags that had formed in her eye sockets. "Tired." She did not even understand the meaning of sarcasm anymore. She might as well have been pleading by how pathetic her voice was, how she felt.

"Do you know why you're here, Ms. O'Haney?" the doctor asked.

She shrugged. The doctor turned around and said something to the guard, but Aisling did not hear her. She was already leaning forward on the desk. Her arms felt like pillows as she placed her cheek against them. All she wanted to do was sleep…

Again she was torn from her spot, jarred from unconsciousness. A guard was already taking her through a loop of hallways. Took another elevator, another long hallway… She didn't even realize she was outside until she felt a bug smack into her face.

"Where to?" she think she asked. At this point, words and conversations were as clear as the people on the Sims games.

"The Penitentiary." Too big of a word for Aisling to understand in her state, but she figured it was the huge building to their right. Her feet dragged across the linoleum floor at the main entrance of the building. The guard babbled with a haggard-looking woman behind a desk. There was a big beep, a mechanical gate opened, and she was forced to walk again. _Follow the white line_, she remembered being told. Or was that before she entered this building?

She couldn't remember.

One good thing about being transferred at four in the morning was that the prisoners were oddly quieter than usual. No one noticed when a woman with wild black hair walking, her shoulders slouched and her head tilted downward. She watched as the square tiles drifted past her feet, how her body felt heavier and heavier the more she moved. When she did look up, it was when a cell door was opening up for her. The guard placed her on the bed (it was more like her falling _onto_ it when he released her arm). By the time he had turned to shut the cell, she was sleeping on the creaky mattress.


	4. Chapter III: ReEvaluation

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ Silly little file! Somehow when I published this, it took out the italics I originally placed in the story! Lol, I apologize for all of the mistakes in this one! :P Hopefully I fixed most of the issues... make sure that you read the notes at the bottom, too! :P I swear, they relate to the story!_

_**DISCLAIMER: **__(lol, I forgot to add this in the other chapters. I mean, sure it's obvious, but you need to add it)_

_ DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. The only thing that I can claim are my OCs. _

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter III: Re-Evaluation/

_The best days were always Thursdays at St. Andrews. On Thursdays, they would allow the patients into the lounge. It wasn't special, but it gave them what little of freedom they could have. In the mornings they would stir them awake, greeted by their weekly examiners bright and early. After a short inspection of their mood, they would escort them to the cafeteria to get some breakfast. When they were finished eating (or they decidedly pushed the tray of disgusting blob aside), they would be escorted into the lounge area._

_In the lounge area, the patients had two options: a) they could relax and nap, or b) they could socialize with the other patients. The first was rather obvious; they could situate themselves on a dusty cot and daydream. They could even watch day-time TV from a rusty 17" that was placed in the corner of the room. It was usually broadcasting the weather channel or some sort of game-show, but at least the patients were watching something whilst their brains rotted slowly. The latter option consisted of harmless card and board games that the patients would play together. None of the games ever revolved around currency or potent competition, so games like Monopoly, Uno, Sorry, etc. were never played. If there was a possibility of patients becoming angered via game-rage, nearby workers would monitor and end the game. Aisling found it amusing how the nurses constantly watched the chess table and wondered how much easier it would have been if they had an extra set of eyes to guard. The most popular game amongst the patients was Connect Four. The nurses said it was liked because of how simple the game, but Aisling figured it was because they liked how the chips sounded when they clinked down the slots._

_Sometimes if one was lucky, the nurses would allow you to do something else. When Aisling was little, they sometimes gave her sheets of blank paper and a crayon. They never gave her a pen or pencil – for fear it would be used as a weapon – but she rather enjoyed the crayons. It wasn't so much the texture that the wax made across the paper, but the colors. Seeing it shine across the page. It was the anticipation, too. Every Thursday when the nurse would open her drawer, she wondered what color she would get this time. Would it be the deep green or turquoise blue? Or that strange color that was neither purple or pink? Her favorite was the sky blue for it always appeared bold on the page; yellow was the least because she couldn't see the lines that she made._

_Thursday was the best day of the week._

* * *

><p>Aisling's eyes opened at the sound of a male voice wailing. She was encased in a tiny cell, lying on a dirty mattress that was squeezed against the back and side walls. A few inches away from the bed was a make-shift toilet, the lid lifted up to reveal the corroded rim. By her feet, maybe a foot away, was the barred door to her cage.<p>

She wondered if she was in hell.

Everyone must have been slowly waking up. Adjusting to the light in her cell, Aisling unfolded herself from the mattress. She swung her legs over the bed, her plastic footies sticking to the cold floor. She was rubbing her eyes when she heard the _clicks_ of her door opening. Removing her hands from her face, her hazel eyes locked onto a man before her. A guard, she assumed when she noted the bullet-proof vest, mask and padded clothing. _Arkham Asylum_ was printed in bold white on his left pocket.

There was a tense moment of silence until Aisling spoke up. "Hello," she greeted, her pitch heightening at the end.

She presumed the guard was glaring at her. "Show me your hands," he demanded. The mask he wore shrouded his face, and she couldn't read his expression. Perking a brow, she raised her hands in front of her. He snatched them in the air, pulled a pair of cuffs from his hip and snapped them roughly around her wrists. Before she could react to his actions, he was pulling her towards him and leading her out of the cell.

She gasped slightly as she was shoved from the cell. There were holding cells _everywhere_ around her! Her cell was only one of maybe ten on that wall while larger cells divided the room into narrow walkways. The floor was waxed and clear, revealing a metallic frame and what looked like light bulbs underneath. Above the tops of the cells was a slender walkway (something like a guard station). The ceiling was a mass of fluorescent lighting which hurt Aisling eyes when she looked up.

She glimpsed at a few other prisoners and found some of them… disturbing. Across from where she imprisoned was a ominous fellow. His shoulders were sagged forward, his jacket hanging awkwardly over his chest. The slacks cut short at his ankles, torn and shredded. His face was hidden underneath the cast shadows of his cage, but Aisling could see the scars that maimed his body. A thick white gash ran from the back of his neck to the top of his buzzed scalp, curved to the spot where his right ear should have been.

As Aisling stepped forward, her footie made an uncomfortable squishing sound on the waxed floor. The prisoner's head snapped from his hands at the noise, stared at Aisling. It took all of her energy to stay calm when his black eyes watched her as she stepped away from his sight.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few minutes. The guard had escorted her to a huge metal door away from the cells, but to what she did not know.

"Doctor Whistler's office," the guard answered curtly.

A red scanner glided over the two individuals before beeping loudly, the door creaking slightly as it opened. "Whistler?" she restated, hoping he would explain a little more.

The guard pressed her forward into a hallway, and the metal door automatically shut behind them. "Yeah. Same doc that evaluated you before."

Whoever he was, Aisling figured he wasn't in the talking mood. She was silent as the guard escorted her out of what looked like the entrance of the building to the outside. She couldn't help but be astounded by how different the property of the asylum looked during the day compared to night. It still had that daunting setting, but with the sun broadcasting its light over the grounds, it looked lively. The grass was thick and bright green by the gravel and concrete path that they walked over. The guard towers were recognizable, not thick black blobs that haunted the sky. She could read the signs easier, too, which was rather relieving. She could easily tell she was being ushered into the Intensive Treatment center by the time the guard opened one of the entrances to the building.

Still, she felt the need to persist the guard with questions. "Before? You mean when I got here last night?"

The guard did something like a shrug (it was hard to tell because his shoulders barely moved). "Like I know," he grunted. "We're almost there. You can ask for yourself when we get there."

"Oh."

"Just keep to yourself." Aisling found it irritating how he tugged at the chain that attached her wrists together, like she was being walked on a leash. She tugged her wrists out of his grip and he spun around sharply. She simply glared back at his masked face and walked forward.

When they got to the elevators, they didn't descend as much as she remembered like before. Instead, they went maybe about two floors down and crossed into a clean hallway. It smelled of fresh paint and new furniture. Like this area was just recently built. Following the guard in front of her, she was lead down the hall before taking a left. Three doors down, they came to a wooden door labeled DR. GRETCHEN WHISTLER.

After knocking on the door, the guard took Aisling's cuffed wrists and escorted her into the room. Another chair was placed on the opposite side of the desk in which she was forced to be seated onto. She deliberately ignored the guard when he muttered something to her and waited until he was closing the door before she looked up. There were two organized piles of paper on the desk, each about three inches high. The desk was bare, otherwise; there wasn't a folder out of place, or even the random pen that was thrown haphazardly onto the surface.

As the doctor entered the room, Aisling noted that she was far tidier than she first expected. A tight-faced woman who wore little makeup and had her graying hair pulled into a tight bun. Her lab coat was starch white, flat, as it had been ironed too much with a steamer. Her gloveless hands revealed self-manicured nails that glittered in the overhead lighting, skin that was strangely smooth when using large doses of hand sanitizer and soap. She stood before Aisling for a few moments before she sat down, her dark eyes sharp and calculating. It reminded her of analyzing a lab rat, and it disturbed Aisling.

Her thin rips were strained into a long line as she examined the woman before her. Without a word, she slipped her hand into her left breast pocket and pulled out a small recorder; a manila folder flipped open in front of her, a photo of Aisling lying on top. Was this her profile? In all the times that Aisling had broken into the filing cabinets at St. Andrews, she had hadn't crossed any information about her. For a brief moment, she thought of what she would read if she plucked the folder off of the doctor's desk. Instead, the doctor broke the silence when she pulled open a drawer and plucked out the pen.

"Ms. Aisling O'Haney." Her brusque voice rang with an accent that Aisling wasn't familiar with. "Did I pronounce that correctly?" she asked.

Aisling nodded. "Yep. You're probably the only person to pronounce my name correctly on the first try."

"It's interesting for someone to have the original spelling of a name. Gaelic names have altered to fit the modern century. Someone with your name, it's quite rare."

She chanced the idea that the doctor was French; she slurred her syllables ever so slightly, and added a distinctive tone at the end of her words. But her voice was raw, not smooth and subtle. Russian, maybe? But Russian was _thick_; _heavy_. The doctor still had this lighter tone. The doctor sighed, clicked the pen open and looked down at the manila folder in front of her. She clasped the small photo, brushed it aside. "I apologize for calling you in so early. You see, when we went through this procedure last night, you were unfit for questioning."

Aisling tried to picture the doctor asking her questions, imagine how exhausted she appeared. Her memory was a little fuzzy; all she could remember was the constant walking and the guards that dragged her across the floors. "It's fine," she replied. "I doubt you would have disturbed anything." Perhaps she should have been bitter when she said those words, she thought, as their meaning reverberated in her head.

The doctor watched her expression for a few moments. _Analyzing_. "I see." She began to scribble something on the paper in front of her, but it was unrecognizable for Aisling to read. "Do you know why you're here?"

A look of annoyance was exchanged between the two women. "You're joking, right?" Aisling asked after a few seconds of silence. She didn't know whether to be angry or shocked that the doctor would bluntly ask something like _that_.

"The law requires that we inform every patient in this facility where they have been taken and why. Since you have gotten me bright in the morning, I still contain some patience for these examinations. Now, I will ask again –"

"I was falsely accused of murdering a doctor," she interrupted hotly.

"You were… falsely accused." If her words were not explanatory enough that she didn't believe Aisling's story, her expression was. "He was stabbed multiple times in the abdomen by a switchblade." Her gaze drifted to the paper, her pen moving across the page quickly.

What was she writing? "I didn't have a single weapon on me," she growled in defense. "The only thing I had on me was this t-shirt and these uncomfortable slacks. Oh, and don't forget the plastic _shities_." She could feel her indignation rising, so much that she swung one bruised heel onto the doctor's desk with a loud _dunk_. The doctor flinched at that, dropping her pen on the paper and moved backwards.

"What is the meaning of this! Get your foot off of my desk!" she hissed.

The dark-haired woman was not deterred from the doctor's intense voice. "Just trying to prove a point, doc," she muttered as she removed her foot back to the floor.

"I called you in here so you could be properly examined. I will not have you disrupt my office!"

Aisling raised her hands into the air as a sign of resignation. "Fine," she stated. "I'll be good." Her hazel eyes that sparked with a dark intensity said something otherwise.

* * *

><p><strong>EXAMINATION &amp; DIAGNOSIS<strong>

_**Date: **__OCT. 25, 2009_

_**Doctor: **__DR. GRETCHEN WHISTLER_

_**Patient's Name: **__O'HANEY, AISLING (middle name uknown)_

_**D.O.B. **__ 2/13/90_

_Examination Diagnosis:_

_ Ms. O'Haney is revealing psychotic symptoms that have and might be possible traits of early Schizophrenia. It is unclear –due to her lack of contribution – but the individual seems to be experiencing hallucinations; delusions. As of yet, she appears to be denying her actions that have caused her to be moved to this Asylum, having no recollection of the events. She believes that Doctor O'Connor (the victim of her past crimes) had died of a heart attack._

_ The records from St. Andrews noted that the female was diagnosed ill, but the details are very limited. There were no accounts of violence before –except for one note that described her attacking a warden – or was there anything to credit her being dangerous. This attack upon the doctor may be a severe sign that a possible illness has been nourishing unnoticed, and could be a further threat._

_ After further examination, Ms. O'Haney may be fully diagnosed, but as of now, she will be classified as a level three patient. For security reasons, keep her to a cell that is further from the other inmates to prevent any possible complications._

_Dr. Gretchen Whistler_

* * *

><p>For the rest of the day, Aisling was quite the grumpy character. It was reasonable, considering that a doctor had labeled her as a "skitzo" with a case of denial. She somehow managed to piss the guard that escorted her around so much that he screamed at her and demanded that someone else "take this piece of work". However, as much as a bad mood she was in, she was glad for a few things. One, after Dr. Whistler sent her away, she was brought down a few floors to a locker room. She was given an orange suit, a bar of soap and towel, and was allowed twenty minutes for a shower. Sounds pathetic, but she was relieved to get out of her white attire. Water was cold, bar kind of stunk, but she enjoyed those twenty minutes of water raining down on her. Later after she dried and got dressed, she was allowed a comb to untangle her hair (a guard had to watch to make sure she wouldn't use it as a weapon, but she his company didn't bother her).<p>

By the time she was snugly cleaned and dressed, it was past noon. Instead of being returned to the small cell she napped in before, she was taken into an area that contained lesser cells. They twice the size of the other one and, although consisting of the same crappy bed and toilet, looked somewhat comfortable.

The prisoners were something different, however.

There were three prisoners that Aisling could see. Two out of three looked exactly alike, for they were round orbs of Irish fat. They were dressed in the same gaudy orange as Aisling was, but there was no mistaking the bright curly red hair that fell just above their ears. In between the two of them was an hour-glass shaped woman. The suit almost looked too small as it stretched to cover her chest. Her bleached blond hair was pulled into two high ponytails. If it wasn't for the fact that her face was covered in makeup, she would have appeared to be an early-developed middle school child. But like said before, the makeup rendered her strangely.

"Oh, hey! Who's _sweetface_?" The girl piped from her cell. Her plump red lips were pulled into a playful smile, her white teeth flashing.

Aisling perked an eyebrow, whilst the guard escorting her sighed loudly. "Shut it Quinzel. The last thing she needs is the 'Welcome Wagon' from you," he snapped ruggedly.

"Quinn!" she snapped. "It's Harley Quinn, ya' moron!"

"Right. My bad." He unlocked a vacant cell and moved Aisling into the room, closing it behind her. His hard gaze moved from the clown-like woman to the hazel-eyed one he just locked in a cage. "Be careful with that one," he warned. "Complete nut-case."

"I heard that!" She was deliberately ignored for he left the room without saying a word. "They're so rude, ya' know! Callin' lil' poor me a nut-case, then lockin' me up! So rude!"

Aisling found her high pitched voice irritating. It was like her voice was a set of fine nails scratching across a white chalk board. The twins, however, seemed to find it amusing; they were giggling away like little children. Grunting, Aisling moved to the mattress and sat down.

"So!" the blond giggled. Damn, was she bubbly. "Who are you?"

It was nothing personal, but Aisling couldn't find any entertainment with talking with this character. "Aisling," she mumbled after a few moments.

"Aisling? That's an odd name!" she giggled.

_"Aisling? I wonder how it's spelt,_" one of the round men asked.

_"Yes, yes, I do wonder!"_ the other chimed. Wow, their voices were even close with each other, Aisling noted with a grimace.

The blond laughed loudly. "Oh, don't mind those two! They chitta' and chatta' about ev'rythin'! Tell me, do you always go by that name, or can I jus' call ya' Ash?"

_"I bet it's spelt A-S-H –"_

"I don't care. And you are?"

_"No, no, no, that doesn't fit! A name like that can't be spelt so easily! There's got to be a secret Y in there!"_

"I'm Harley Quinn! The wonderful, charmin' beauty and the Joka's best fan!"

_"Don't be ridiculous! It's obviously starts with A-S-H because it's pronounced ASH-ling!"_

"Joka'?"

_"So? There are plenty of names that are spelt differently from how they are pronounced! For example, the name 'Julio'. It's pronounced with an 'h' but it's spelt with a 'j'."_

"Aww, don't tell me you don't know the fella'! He's the most talented, brilliant, and smexiest man I ever met!"

_"Julio is a Spanish name! That doesn't count because it's a different language!"_

"Yeah, no. Doesn't really ring a bell."

_"Okay, you have a point, but there's no way that it's spelt so simply!"_

"Wow, you must have had a dull life."

_"I'm telling you, it's spelt A-S-H-"_

"GUYS! It's spelt A-I-S-L-I-N-G, got it?" The twins were quiet for a few moments, before they both "Ohh"-ed in unison. Aisling savored the silence for the time being, then looked towards the blond. "And no, I did not have a dull life. I lived in a dull neighborhood, and was confined from cities like this one." She chanced a glance at one of the twins and found herself laughing. They were crimson with embarrassment.

"Well then, I spose' you have a lot to catch up with!" Harley giggled. She, too, found the red-faced big-bellies quite entertaining. Meanwhile, one of the twins nudged closer to his companion and gave him a tiny glare.

_"I told it was pronounced differently."_

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ Yay, chapter three! Thank you eye of the divine and __ShadowCat98 for reviewing! It means a lot that you guys sent me a message about my silly little story, and the advice is greatly appreciated! Also thanks to my other readers for… well, reading lol! I hope you guys are enjoying the story!_

_ So, I'd thought I'd say that these events are occurring slightly before the events of the game. The events of the game will unfold, that I promise, but not right away! :P Also…_

_ Okay, so this chapter wasn't too insightful. I was going to throw more in, but then decided that it should be held off for the next chapter. Uhm… I can't really think of anything else really to say. Wuvs you for reading this, and I will wuvs you more if you review! Lol, you don't have to, but it's really appreciated!_

_ Oh! If I made it unclear, the two twins at the end were Dumfree and Deever Tweed (Tweedledee and Tweedledum). I wasn't exactly sure how to characterize them, so I thought I would fixate their personalities on Lewis Carrol's actual characters! :3 They'll be in the story more, but they were just inserted in this chapter, along with Harley._

_ Wow do I ramble. ANYWAY… STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT EPISODE!... Er, chapter…. Lol, SEE YA! :3_


	5. Chapter IV: Prey

_**DISCLAIMER: **__ DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. The only things that I can claim are my OCs. Also, they will own my life when Arkham City comes out… Just saying. _

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter IV: Prey/

Noon faded to dusk, then to night. Aisling had no clock to glance at to make sure of the time, but she guessed it based on the amount of workers she saw. At first, there were at least three or four guards that would slip into the room, tapping their batons against their gloved hands. Doctors dressed in those ridiculous coats would appear, clicking away with their pens and scribble across a clipboard that they kept clutched to their chests. They would inspect one specific patient; ask them how they were feeling and so on. Luckily, the only patients that replied or spoke in the room were the strange trio that Aisling was locked nearby, so the room was moderately quiet. But as the time passed, so too did the visiting doctors. Guards' inspections became lesser and lesser, dwindling from a party of three to two, then one. The time in between the patrols lengthened, patients began to fall asleep…

Harley Quinn was as obnoxious as she was the first time Aisling entered the room. She kept asking why Aisling was sent to Arkham, prodding her until Aisling eventually gave her some bull-shit explanation to shut her up; sadly, that didn't stop her and she continued to chat away.

The other two, as Aisling eventually learned, were Dumfree and Deever Tweed. They were two moronic cousins that decided to dress up as clowns. Well, Tweedledee and Tweedledum technically, but it didn't really matter to Aisling. She found it ridiculous how someone could portray themselves as characters from a silly book like _Alice in Wonderland_. They didn't "_instill fear"_ into their victims (that's what one of them told her when she asked), but were like a poorly written joke and gave her a headache. The good thing about them was that they were exuberant with Harley, giving Aisling the opportunity to get some peace.

A lone guard stepped into the room and glanced around. Under his helmet, Aisling could catch a glimpse of his exhausted expression. Sulking forward, he approached Aisling's cell, his eyes tracing an invisible path that he was following. Aisling was seated on her mattress, her back pressed against a wall as her fingers trailed through her hair.

"You're still awake?" he asked after a few moments. She could sense nervousness in his tone.

"Eh, I'm a bit of an insomniac," she replied after a few moments. Her hand that was combing through her hair fell onto her lap. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Around one in the morning."

"Wonderful." She adjusted herself so she sat at the end of the mattress, leaned forward with her knees on her lap. She watched as the guard slipped his hand underneath his helmet, rubbed his forehead tenderly. "How long have you been here?" she asked quietly.

He made a scoffing noise, removing his hand from his face. "Too long, if you ask me," he joked. A thin smile stretched across his face, but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I was one of the few that were picked to patrol for third-shift."

"I see. How long have you been here, already?"

"Well, I started around 2:30 for second-shift. I was about to head home until my boss cornered me. Told me there wasn't enough security for the night."

"Ah. At least you get overpaid," she acknowledged thoughtfully.

"Yeah, sure. But I'm starting to wonder if it's worth it, considering I feel like I could sleep for a whole week."

Aisling pursed her lips as she considered his words. She supposed that being part of security was a lot different at Arkham than a regular prison. A simple guard would patrol men that were accused of crimes both small and large. Some were imprisoned because of breaking-and-entering, a number of DUI's, some assault. Some were accused of murder, some might have even been wrongly accused. The biggest danger was that one of them was going to break out of their cell, assault the nearest guard and use him as leverage to get out of the building. But as they cock the gun against the guard's temple, they are aware of what they are threatening. They realize that they are playing with the very life of someone else. In a place like this, a place like Arkham… They do not understand that concept. If one breaks out, they would not jest about whether or not their victim will live, would not use them as bait in order to escape. They would kill them without a fragment of remorse before moving onto their next victim.

They were prey, thrown to the wolves and, although given weapons to defend themselves, were vulnerable.

Aisling pondered if that was going to happen to her. She wondered if she would become bait to the inmates like the guards were. Become a fresh slab of meat to be beaten and broken. She wondered if they would torment her, assault her; terrify her until she would stay awake at night, too paranoid of her surroundings.

"I thought that guards weren't allowed to speak with the inmates." Perhaps she was being ignorant to state such a thing to the man's face. Still, she could not ignore her wonder as to why someone would simply walk up to her cell and talk to her.

He shrugged sheepishly. "We are allowed to speak with them," he corrected after a small chuckle. "It's just that… well, they're not good with conversations. Considering that half of them are complete lunatics, they would rather shove a knife in our throats before saying a simple 'hello'."

"Yet, here you are. Talking to me."

The guard didn't respond at first, but rubbed back of his neck. His gaze drifted away from her, returning to the floor as if to study the tiles. "You look different from the others." His voice trailed off, like he was struggling to find the right words. "You don't have that look in their eyes like they do." He glanced at her before his eyes darted to the floor once more. "It sounds odd, I know," he added at seeing her confused expression. "Some of the people in this place… They have this look in their eyes that turns your stomach inside-out; it makes you want to turn around and run away." He looked back to Aisling, this time holding her gave. "I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining it," he admitted.

This time it was Aisling who broke their gaze. "A lot of people imagine things," she muttered. Bitterness had tainted her tone. "Especially when they're surrounded by crazies."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. If a sane person was thrown into a crowd of crazies, they would eventually lose their mind."

"That's what they say –"

"But what about the crazies?"

Aisling's eyebrows knitted over her hazel eyes as she glanced at the guard. "The crazies?" she repeated, her words laced with her confusion.

"If the crazies surround someone, what would they do to the _person?_"

* * *

><p>It was lunch-time, probably the strangest time of the day for an asylum filled with condemned, crazy people. Aisling was escorted to a large room with Harley Quinn, and found herself scoffing loudly. It was called a "dining hall" but really it was a replica of a middle-school cafeteria. There were four rows of benches lining from wall to wall, old and paint chipping off of the wood. To the left was a small doorway that led to the trays and workers who served food. Patients were lined one after another, waiting to get their rations before taking a seat on one of the benches. The funny part was that they acted the same as middle-schoolers. The patients were divided into specific groups, circling around one unified reason or character. The biggest group was located in the far right, for it took up the entire row and part of the neighboring benches. What connected them, she had no clue, but it must have been important enough for them to be squished so tightly together.<p>

Harley Quinn seemingly lost interest in her new-found cellmate and abandoned Aisling on the spot. She squealed as she pranced over to the waiting line, her blubbery voice talking away to another prisoner in orange. For once, Aisling actually sighed in relief, deliberately _waited_ until there were enough patients to separate her from the cheery blond.

Taking a plastic tray in her hands, she proceeded further into the line and waited for her food. Examining around her, it seemed strangely familiar. Like St. Andrews, they didn't permit any type of silverware. It was always the unfrozen finger-food. They didn't give out special foods like a seasoned hamburger, but always handed out sandwiches. If one was lucky, you could get a batch of chicken fingers (but those were always limited, and were reserved especially for the smaller children). If they did have some sort of liquid (like a make-shift stew or soup), they handed out plastic spoons that snapped like toothpicks. The soup was handed out cold, also, so the food itself could not be used as a scorching projectile towards other patients. They allowed one Styrofoam cup for each patient, water or apple juice. Orange juice was expensive in large quantities, so you could only get that in the morning.

_Wow_, Aisling thought to herself. For someone who hated that hospital, she was certainly nostalgic about it. As an employee placed a bowl of "stew surprise" onto her tray, she wondered if she was missing St. Andrews. Perhaps she was being arrogant and didn't realize that she might have considered the place as a home. She lived there for about three or four years, after all.

Another man dressed in cooking attire situated a petite apple on her tray and handed her a cup of water. Clutching the styrofoam in her hand, she considered the possibility of St. Andrews being a home. But when she tried to imagine it, she only saw an image of J-Jay. Him, and fire. It could never be a home, never _will_ be. Aisling promised she would scold herself later for ever having such disgusting and desperate thoughts.

As she stepped out of the small corridor, she approached the four rows of seated men in the orange jumpsuits, none of which she knew. Harley was completely out of sight, probably dissolved in the thick crowd in the back. _Don't worry,_ she told herself as a pang of fear twisted her gut. _Just take a seat and they won't notice_. Gulping back saliva that somehow built in the back of her throat, she approached the tables with her tray.

They noticed.

There wasn't one head that didn't turn towards her the moment she approached the benches. Whatever noise had dwindled away and an eerie silence had settled in, so palpable that it began to choke Aisling. Struggling against the instinct to run, she forced her body to move forward. She placed her tray on an empty area on a bench and sat down. After a couple of minutes, the prisoners' eyes drifted away from her, and returned to whatever they were doing before.

"That was creepy." She was surprised that she was able to maneuver herself so perfectly to the table, appear so calm and collected when she really wanted to rip their eyes out. It wasn't over, of course. They weren't going to simply stare her down; at one point someone was going to pester her. Test her. That's how it went, anyway. A newbie is either bait or a possible recruit.

The tester was not one prisoner, but a group of four. They were seated at another table, glancing over at her. One, perhaps the ringleader, waved his hand to signal the other three to lean closer to him; devised a plan that Aisling could not overhear, but knew it was about her. Then, after a few minutes of "planning", they pushed themselves away from the table; one by one, they unfolded themselves from the benches and strode towards her. She attempted to appear oblivious and picked up her malnourished apple. It didn't crunch when her teeth sunk into its red skin.

The first sat down directly across from her. He smiled at her with a set of yellowed, rotting teeth, and Aisling found them revolting. The second sat right _next_ to her, pressing against her left shoulder, bringing a horrible scent of rotting eggs with him. The third occupied her other side, slapping his sweaty palms onto the table-top. Aisling was able to keep herself collected, even as the ringleader stepped behind her.

"Hey _sweet stuff_. Haven't seen you 'round here," his voice was thick and raw, like there were rocks grinding against one another in the pit of his esophagus.

Aisling bit her lip momentarily. A snarky remark didn't seem like the most appealing option, considering her position she was in. One wrong move and she could be grabbed from both sides. Instead, she focused her attention on the tray of food in front of her. Maybe if she acted like she didn't notice them, they would eventually leave her alone. She raised the apple to her pale lips once more.

That is, until the man in front of her took it out of her grasp. She couldn't stop herself from glaring at the prisoner, gawked as he took a bite. Damned bastard took her food right out of her hand!

This seemed to inspire the other men that sat beside her. The one on her right snickered as he took her bowl of stew. The one on the left lifted her syrofoam cup and downed the remains of her water, leaving her plastic tray utterly bare.

"Hey, I was talkin' to ya'," the ringleader commented.

"And now, you have my attention," she growled as she watched in disgust as the man on her right suckled at the bowl of soup. Whatever food she once had was contaminated by their nauseating mouths.

"Hey, hey, hey, there's no need for an attitude!" he remarked in mock-hurt.

Instead of heeding her own advice, Aisling's snarky remarks tumbled from her lips to no delay. "My bad. Next time when people take my food away from me, I'll try to be cheery about it."

"Oh-ho!" he laughed. She still hadn't faced him but she imagined he was leaning back, his arms outstretched. "Listen to this, guys! I think we have another joker!"

"And you're a pestering prisoner with a couple of lackeys. How original."

Again, he chuckled. "Yer' quite rude, ya' know that. Ignoring me and all."

"Oops. I figured you were talking to some other _sweet stuff_," she retorted. Her fingers slowly wrapped around the corners of the tray in front of her, her gaze hardening.

"Heh, do ya' see any women 'round here? If there are women, they've already been taken'!"

"Oh? Well then, it's a good thing that '_sweet stuff'_ can be used on men, huh?" Aisling couldn't help herself from cracking a smile at that.

"Hey, I'd watch what you say if I were you – " A cold, rough hand clasped onto her shoulder.

Aisling felt her body shudder from the man's touch, something like acidic bile rising in her throat. "Don't touch me," she hissed. Her fiery eyes flashed to the man that sat across from her. Her expression seemed to pierce through him, for his sickly smile was wiped clean from his face; he visibly flinched as he leaned away from the table. She then turned to the others that sat beside her; they were not as affected, but they still faltered away from her figure.

The ringleader was oblivious to the reactions of his counterparts. "Oooh… Yer' _sooo threatening!_ What are ya' gonna' do about it, huh? Scream like a lil' girl?"

Her body seemed to coil, like she was about to spring forward to attack someone. "I'm warning you," she muttered rashly. Her right hand unclenched the tray that was in front of her, tightened into a fist so hard that her knuckles glowed white. _"Don't touch me."_

"Da' fuck I won't, you stupid –"

Before his hand could latch onto her shoulder, her right elbow dug into his abdomen. Hard. The blow knocked the air out of his lungs, causing him to stumble backwards. He doubled over in pain, gulping at the air like a fish out of water. Aisling unfolded herself from the bench, tray in hand. Turning around, she saw the ringleader struggling to compose himself, trying to recover from her blow. A dark smile crossed her features as she clenched the plastic tray firmly in her hands.

A loud cracking noise reverberated off of the walls of the cafeteria, silencing everyone in the room. The ringleader who was once curled over in pain was sprawled across the tiled floor, unconscious and a reddened face. He was struck across the head with Aisling's tray, so hard that not only did it knock him out, but it made her hands and fingers tingle. Aisling peered down at the man with smug satisfaction and spun the tray in her hands. The guards were slow to react, and by the time they cried out in alarm, she was already walking away. Leaving the three wide-eyed lackeys that had once surrounded her, she maneuvered herself to another section and sat down, acting like nothing had ever occurred.

* * *

><p>In the far corner of the cafeteria, one character was captured by the dark-haired woman's show, so much that he nearly cackled in amusement. A large smile cracked across his face as he leaned back with his arms crossed across his chest. He cocked his head in wonder, parted his blood red lips to say something, but was interrupted by a sharp tug on his sleeve. With a venomous growl, he spun his head towards his right to see Harley pursing her bulbous red lips at him.<p>

_"What?"_ the Joker hissed after a few moments. He tore his sleeve out of her grasp as if her touch was infectious.

"That's Aislin'. She was in a cell next to me yesterday," she explained nonchalantly. If she was hurt by his reactions, she did not reveal it. "Poor dolly waz' held in some hospital. Then, BAMZA! Kills a docta' and is shipped off to Arkham!"

That seemed to have impressed the eccentric madman. Cupping his white chin between his fingers, he pondered out loud, "A doc', huh?"

"Thas' what she told me, puddin'!"

Now he laughed. His lackeys that sat around him glanced at each other in alarm, unsure of how to react to his dramatic mood swing. Even Harley Quinn stared at him in confusion. Once his cackling calmed, he glanced at Harley with a wide grin. "You know sweets –" he swung his arm around her shoulder and Harley's face tinted crimson. "I think she should be added to the _party list_, don't you think? Someone with that much _spunk_ can't be kept from our _celebrations_!" He was about to laugh once more, but his dark eyes flickered to the end of the table. "What do _you_ think? Eh, _Doc_?"

Jonathan Crane's black hair dangled in front of his face, even as he swiped his skeletal hand numerous times through it. His crystal-like eyes were focused on the platter before him, a look of disgust morphing his features. At hearing the Joker, he looked up from the tray and glared at the green-haired freak before him.

"Do you think that this gal has enough spunk to join our party? Hmm? Or perhaps she's too _dangerous_ for you. After all, she did kill a doc, someone like _you_."

"Don't compare me to those impudent morons," he snapped. "They wouldn't understand, wouldn't be able to comprehend the smallest concept of my work, of my achievements."

"You're soooo _testy_, Doc! It's like a whole _family_ of bugs crawled up your ass and _died_!"

Crane rolled his eyes as the pestering man broke out into laughter once more. How any could endure the Joker's deranged personality was a mystery to him. Personally, he wanted to stitch the fool's mouth shut if it wasn't for the fact that he was interested in his plans. It was unclear of what the Joker's goals truly were, but Crane was sure of two things. One, he would be free to experiment once more.

Two –the most significant and most valuable to Crane – was that he would have plenty of test subjects to experiment on.

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ Whoot, whoot, I managed to finish Chapter 4! Yay! I don't really have much to say for this one, really. I'm sorry about the last chapter, there were a lot of silly errors that I made. Also, I know I was a little off with Harley Quinn with her referring to the Joker. It was a one-time mistake, I promise! So, now onto my readers! :3 Thank you Mieuwings, RomonaFlowerTwinSister, ShadowCat98 and especially eye of the divine. If it weren't for your comments, I don't think anyone would have been able to read this story (particularly my last chapter. It was as if a bomb literally exploded on the page, lol). Also, thank you for everyone for subscribing and spending your time to read my silly little series! :3 You people are amazing!_

_ Now that I just gushed on the page, I feel I should have some sort of nerd-spasm. So… I am stoked for Arkham City, no joke. They already have this intense list of characters that are going to reveal themselves! BUT what is really making me ecstatic is what __**little**__ information they gave about Scarecrow. I mean, COME ON! He ruled Arkham Asylum, and now they haven't even mentioned the slightest things about him! If he was actually killed by Croc (yes I know they made a small video of him grabbing onto the last crate of TITAN, but that was a generated video, along with Croc and Bane), I'm gonna' cry meeself to sleep! _

_ Hah, I spammed the page again. STAY TUNED FOR MORE STORY! AND MORE SPAMMING, lol!_


	6. Chapter V: Dr Young

_**DISCLAIMER: **__ DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. What I CAN claim, however, are my OCs. Also, they will own my life when Arkham City comes out… Just saying. _

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter V: Dr. Young/

Within the next few days, Aisling was brought back to the Medical Facility for her first interview. It was early in the day, only an hour after being given breakfast. The guards were uncommonly gentle with her as they steered her into a small white room. In the middle was a simple table with two chairs placed on opposite sides. She was startled when she could not find a one-sided mirror on any of the walls, but it did bring a sense of privacy. They seated her on the chair before strapping her wrists down with belt-like restraints.

Behind she could hear the door open, but she did not crane her neck to look back. As she expected, it was the doctor and she seated herself on the other chair. Like Dr. Whistler, her hair was pulled into a tight bun. She had a youthful complexion, a tuff of brown bangs fall just short of her shaped eyebrows, her lips full and glossy pink. She wore heavy makeup around her eyes, her lashes were thick and heavy and her eyes were encased with black eyeliner. Aisling couldn't help but note that it somehow tarnished the natural beauty of her ocean blue eyes. Like the doctor's around her, her attire consisted of a white lab coat that reached to her knees. Black slacks were visible underneath, folding over in thin cuffs above a pair of black leather shoes.

She didn't speak at first to Aisling, but shifted in the chair as she placed a manila folder onto the table. She dug into one of her breast pockets and pulled out a small device. A recorder, Aisling recognized, that made a small beeping noise when she pressed down on the red button. She placed it onto the desk beside the folder, then looked up to meet Aisling's gaze.

"Patient Interview 1. Patient's name is Aisling O'Haney. Hello Aisling, I'm Dr. Young," the doctor had a very crisp tone, and Aisling suspected that the doctor believed she was a very important person. "How have you been with settling in?"

Aisling couldn't resist from scoffing at the question. "What do you think?" she asked sarcastically once her small chuckle subsided.

"I was informed of your little mishap in the cafeteria. You managed to give a fellow patient a concussion," she added after a few moments, pursing her lips ever so slightly. "Care to elaborate?"

Aisling shrugged. "What's to elaborate?" she replied, her arms crossing over her chest. "A guy thought he could antagonize me, thought wrong, and got a tray smacked across his face."

"Why did he want to antagonize you?"

She opened her mouth and thought about making a snappy remark about the doctor's lack of intelligence. "What do you think? Stupid git' saw a girl and presumed she was weak. Had his damned lackeys sit next to me as if to intimidate me; took my food, too. But why am I explaining this to you? You should know, considering you're a _woman_." She paused to wait for the doctor's frown to form. "Or is it different when you're a doctor?"

"No, I'm afraid it's not." Anger was hinted in her soft tone as she spoke. Apparently Aisling had hit a sore subject with the doc.. Shifting in her seat, Dr. Young switched the conversation with another topic. "I looked over the reports that were given to me, both from what Dr. Whistler recorded and from St. Andrews. I have to admit, they're quite bland." With that, she opened the folder.

Noting how aged the ink was on the sheets of paper, Aisling found it plausible that they were some of the first recording when she was institutionalized. "St. Andrews isn't known for its excellent notation," she replied. For a split second, her expression was tainted with a nostalgic smile. "Actually, I don't think it's known for anything but housing a few mentally unstable people," she mused, chuckling at her own statement.

"Is? You are no longer connected with St. Andrews, yet you still refer to it as if you are still there."

Aisling made something a noise like an exasperated sigh. "If I referred to it as 'was', I would make it sound as if it doesn't exist. Which it still does… unless of course I wasn't informed of its demise. Tell me, did someone burn it down whilst I was being locked in this _fun-house_?"

"No."

"Damn. You had my hopes up, too," she sighed with a strained smile. "But anyway, I'll always be connected to that place, no matter what I do."

"Why do you say that?"

"For one, it's a hospital. The moment you are sent to one of those, it's permanently noted in your record. It's those papers like the ones that are sitting in front of you."

"Records can always be erased," she noted.

"That is true," Aisling agreed after a moment. "But that wouldn't be enough. Even if I _could_ find all of those records, shred them to bits and burn them, it wouldn't be enough. You see, it's the _people_ that will always keep you connected to the institutes. Once they get the idea that you're a _crazy_, they condemn you to that label. They'll reprimand your actions, even warn others…"

"Then wouldn't it be logical to move away? If you go to someplace where no one knows you, they'll be unaware of such notions."

Her thin smile fell from her face. "You're bringing my hopes up again, doc. You shouldn't tease a patient such as myself like that." There was sadness in her features, but she composed it quickly before Dr. Young could make something of it. "It's rather rude."

"I'm only asking, Aisling." Perhaps it was the doctor's attempt of apologizing, but her tone was more rigorous than empathetic. "You see, I'm going to be interviewing you for a period of time. Considering this is our first session, I thought I'd get to know a little about you." Again, her insistence made her appear impatient.

Mused, Aisling decided she would needle the doctor and see how much she could tolerate. "That's understandable, but it's also my first interview," she replied smugly. "And I find myself terribly shy when I talk about myself, you see. It would only be fair if you talked about _yourself_ so I can get _comfortable_ around _you_."

Dr. Young gritted her teeth, but silently agreed. "Okay. I graduated from high school being the Valedictorian of my class. I pursued psychology and psychiatry when I attended Gotham University. After graduating with top honors, I made my way here to this asylum. It is my goal to restore sanity to the even most deranged criminals of Gotham. As we speak, I believe I have stumbled upon the most profound cure to save these people."

"That's quite a feat, doc." Aisling could sense the doctor's pride swell like a balloon at her words. But, she interrupted the doctor before she could speak. "You know, I heard quite a few stories since I've been here. One, in particular, kind of stands out, I think. I heard that there's a man in here with tally-marks all over his body. He's said to stab someone to death with a knife, then when he's hovering over bloodied corpse, he makes another mark into his skin. He's said that he's 'liberating' them from their 'dull, meaningless' lives. Is it true?"

The brown-haired woman nodded after a few moments. "Yes. You're speaking of a patient known as Victor Zsasz. He's one of our… more troubled patients."

"And you think you can heal people like him?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause before either woman spoke. The silence had become so dreadfully palpable that it made the air heavy with tension. After what felt like a millennium, Aisling broke the tension and gave a grim smile.

"And here I thought I was the crazy one."

* * *

><p><em>It was very unlike Brandon Krutchangas to explore the filing cabinets that withheld information about the patients. He usually regarded this information to his employees. It was not because he did not wish to be involved, but he assumed that they were more qualified, could help more. Yet, after everything that had happened with Aisling, he was empowered by a desire to search. To find <em>something_. As to what he wanted to find, he had no idea, but he just had an intense yearning to find it._

_ He remembered asking a nurse how they had kept these things organized once. He found it amazing how they could understand so much about a patient, so he asked a younger woman about it. She explained that they organized the information into two different sections of the room. The first section –the one he was shuffling though at that moment – was the records of the person, statistics and bits of notable data made by doctors. It was the unbiased section that declared the patient's health and what they were diagnosed. The other side, or the more interesting side as the woman said, was the personal section. It was a container that held the patient's belongings, items that were taken away from them when they were admitted to the hospital. It held the wedding rings, the photographs... Fragments of memories that might have shaped their lives, made them who they are._

_ Of course, since J-Jay had melded himself into St. Andrews, that section was wiped clean. In an attempt to settle some of his debts, the man pawned off the patient's heirlooms. Naturally, the items were only priceless to the patients, so he was given very little from the pawn-brokers. The man had no boundaries, either. He didn't even stop to pause before he sold someone's precious wedding ring just so he could get some cash._

_ Brandon had always wanted to fire the man. Not for illegally mishandling and selling someone else's property, but for everything that bastard did. He was irresponsible, forced that Sara Angolia to do all of his work. He harassed the patients, especially Aisling. There were whispers of him sexually assaulting, but Brandon didn't believe in those. Or at least, he refused to believe. With all of the increasing debt, however, Brandon could not fire him. J-Jay was a bulbous pig, but he was a sly one at that. The moment he was fired, he would make up some theory that would lead his debt-collectors to Brandon. J-Jay would probably give them some bull-shit conspiracy that Brandon had all the money and they would pursue him._

_ Brandon couldn't afford something like that, not in his weak state. Couldn't fight something when his own body was falling apart on him. When the pills he was taking were not affective…_

_ Ah, but Brandon couldn't afford to think such dark thoughts._

_ Abandoning the file cabinet, he shut the drawer with a loud bang. There was absolutely nothing in there, nothing about Aisling, anyway. All of the files about her were moved to Arkham; J-Jay made sure that all connections that she had with this hospital were moved. Brandon just wished he would find a flaw; find something that was somehow connected with her. Something…_

_ Then he found it._

_ He didn't find it, but he kicked it. There was a soft clunk against the toe of his leather shoe before something skittered across the floor. He didn't catch a glimpse of it at first, only seeing a shiny yellow object tumble across the tiled flooring. Confused, he stepped towards the filing cabinet that the object slid underneath, kneeled down and reached underneath the cabinet. His fingers were greeted with an unnatural coolness as touched the object. It was smooth on one side, the other rough and gritty. It felt delicate, fitting compactly in the palm of his hand. Pulling back with the object in hand, he stood up to examine it._

_ It was a small golden locket. The thin chain was tangled as it intertwined with his fingers. It was faced down on his palm, revealing a flat surface. It was relatively clean except at the bottom there was a blank stain. It seemed to stretch across the side of the object towards the top of the locket. As he flipped it over, he realized that the top of the locket was burned. The metal was a dark stain of orange, crusted with black ash, scarring the once Victorian detail._

_ A fire?_

_Unconsciously, his finger ran across the scarred metal, rubbed against the ash that refused to come off. Inspecting closer, he saw that not only was the metal burnt, but was coated in something else. There was a false sheen to the metal, as if someone had taken Windex to it to try to clear up the crusted face. _Probably J-Jay_, Brandon thought tiredly. Probably thought that if he would wipe off the ash he could sell it._

_Pocketing the locket, Brandon was at least sure of one thing. He didn't know how to stop J-Jay, or how to untangle him from St. Andrews without making a mess. What he did know, though, was that the small locket in his breast pocket belonged to a patient._

_It belonged to Aisling._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note<strong>__:_

_WHA? Chapter five! *le gasp* I actually was able to write five chapters (six, if you want to be critical – v –', but who counts the prologue?) without suffering a painful dosage of horrible reviews! Or bricks sent via email that fly out of the screen and smash my face… er, yet… Lol, sorry my mind is all ramble-ee. For example, I had a nightmare of a reoccurring demon trying to beat the snot out of me. Also my yard was flooding… I live in the country (open yard, fields, and any other type of freedom-ish crap you can think of)… on a hill. SO… yeah, like I said, my mind is just… odd right now._

_ ANYWAY, here's some recap for the story. I'm sorry if this one is kind of shorter than the others! I had more shtuff in this chapter, but as I was re-reading it, I found that a section didn't make sense to put in. So, like before, I'll hold it till' the next chapter. Also, I was thinking about the story line and I felt that I should involve Mr. Krutchangas more than I have. I already have an antagonist-ish character (J-Jay), but I felt like Aisling deserved to have someone that wanted to help her._

_ Also, I have dozens of ideas that I want to use for this story. A bunch, really. I just don't know when to use them… It's like I have a bunch of beads for a necklace, but I don't know how I should attach them together on the string. On that note of spammage, I hope you guys liked this chapter! Thank you ShadowCat98, eye of the divine, and all of you amazing people that spent your time reading this! It really means a lot to me! :D Reviews and feedback are always loved! :3_

_~Sly-TazZ_


	7. Chapter VI: Fair Warning

_**DISCLAIMER: **__ DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. What I CAN claim, however, are my OCs. Also, they will own my life when Arkham City comes out… Just saying._

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter VI: Fair Warning/

_ She remembered the first day when she was first admitted to St. Andrews. She wasn't sure of the time when she entered the building. She had been in a car for seemed like forever, though any sort of extensive car-ride felt like forever for a child. She had her eyes closed as she was guided through the front doors. They were heavy with sleep, and she was rubbing them in an attempt to restore her vision. When her hazel eyes did focus on her surroundings, all she could truly make out was the white-ness of it all. The tiled floors, the walls, the plastic legs of the chairs and counter-tops. All of it was empty of color and she found it unsettling. Mrs. Zias attempted to hold her hand as they approached the desk, but Aisling pulled away from her._

_The nurse was in a blue tinted uniform, her auburn hair pulled into a messy bun. She glanced at Mrs. Zias for a brief moment, then her gaze shifted to Aisling. She remembered the tingling sensation of anxiousness cripple in her belly under her gaze. The next moment, Mrs. Zias was signing on a clipboard and handing it to the nurse._

_The first woman to greet Aisling had the name Angelica. She remembered it because her nametag was pinned just above her right breast pocket and it glimmered underneath the ceiling lights. She was incredibly sweet with Aisling, even when the girl refused to speak. Aising silently refused to take her hand, but Angelica guided her through the hospital. Her tender hand grazed Aisling shoulder as she escorted her from room to room._

_The first room she showed her was the lounge room. "This is where you can spend your day doing whatever you like. You can play board games, cards, and even watch tv," she explained as she eased Aisling and herself into the room. "You meet others who live here, too, make new friends." Aisling kept her head cast downward, her eyes tracing the tiles underneath her feet._

_The next room was the cafeteria. It was after dinner-time, so the tables were being wiped down, a few kitchen employees were seated at a table and eating. Angelica was kind, asked if Aisling was hungry for anything. She shook her head, but Angelica disappeared into the kitchen nonetheless. When they were leaving, she slipped a Hershey's chocolate bar into her sweatshirt pocket. "You can have that later," she whispered with a genuine smile. It was the first time that Aisling did actually smile, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared._

_After a few more rooms, Angelica walked her down a narrow hallway. She opened a white door, and escorted her into a small room. In the far right corner was a bed, decorated with a thin, pale blue comforter. To the left was a short dresser, painted white with black handles with a mirror hung on the wall just above; a desk had been crammed in another corner with a plastic chair. There was one window on the opposite wall of the door, but the glass was stained yellow. And it was barred from the inside, obstructing most of the view. "This is your new room," Angelina whispered into Aisling's ear. She always seemed to smile whenever she spoke. As she walked towards the window, she placed one nimble hand onto the mattress. "I know it isn't much, but I wasn't sure what you would like. I was thinking that maybe you and I can look through the storage room at some time. We can find blankets that you like, maybe even put up some posters on the walls." Again, she seemed so compassionate with her beautiful smile as she stepped towards the dark-haired girl. "Would you like that?"_

_Aisling feinted another smile, nodded her head. She was a horrible liar back then, so she kept her eyes focused on the floor._

_By the time Angelica guided her back to Mrs. Zias, she was finished with the last of the paperwork. Mrs. Zias said her farewells, gave Aisling a sheepish hug before disappearing behind the main doors. Shortly after, Aisling was taken to her room. It was dark after all, and they supposed that she was tired from the long drive. They gave her a pair of pajamas and she slipped them on after they closed the door. She placed the chocolate bar into one of the dresser drawers, setting it on top of the clothes._

_She didn't sleep on the mattress that night. Instead, she moved the plastic chair away from the desk and placed it front of the window. Then, lacing the blanket from the bed, she wrapped it around herself and seated herself on the chair. She didn't want to look at the walls that surrounded her, didn't want to lay on a creaky old mattress. For the rest of the night, she stared out into the blackness of night until sleep eventually took her._

* * *

><p>"<em>Get up. Get up now, or I'll drag you out myself."<em>

Man, was Boles a gentleman when meeting Aisling for the first time. Aisling didn't have a moments warning before two guards stormed into her cell and snatched her up by the arms. She gasped at the sudden movement, and it was like someone had smacked her back into reality. She tried to yell something around "what the hell" but she couldn't sound out the words. It was as if her tongue had swollen while she slept, so she only managed to produce incoherent noises. Her hazel eyes opened only to snap shut from the intense light. It took a few minutes before her eyes could adjust to her surroundings.

"God damn," someone remarked. It was a male's, and it was nasally, like a stereotypical accent for an Italian. "Joker didn't mention how much of a pain in the ass you would be to wake up."

_Joker?_ That didn't sound right to Aisling's ears. Blinking away the black spots that flawed her vision, she focused her attention on a dimly lit figure that stood in front of her cell. It was another guard, or at least that was what she could tell from the characteristic uniform that he wore. Unable to see clearly, all she could make out at first was that he had a tanned complexion and a buzzed scalp of black hair. "Well, it might have to do with the fact that it's in the middle of the night," she mumbled back. At last, she could speak properly!

He scoffed at that. "I guess you have a point. But nonetheless, the _'big man'_ wants to see you."

Vision cleared, Aisling inspected the guard's face more thoroughly. Unlike the other guard's, the man wore no helmet to reveal a not-so-decent face. It was rough, long stress lines marking his appearance as much as scars did. One in particular ran across the left of his face, making a gash that ran vertically across his eye. It seemed to have damaged the eye too, scarring the pupil to a milky white. Underneath his cracked lips, Aisling could see the dark bristles of his five-o'clock shadow. Aisling wasn't sure if she was compelled to laugh or flinch away at seeing his features. "And you are…?"

"The best damned guard you'll ever meet," he replied with a cocky smirk.

Aisling found his pride quite insulting. "I would prefer a name, actually," she muttered after a short break of silence. Her hazel eyes appeared ominous underneath the luminescent lights. "I'll go first: Aisling. Now it's your turn." The guards that had picked her up were moving her towards the door whilst the conceited guard was opening it.

He chuckled in response as he moved away from the opening and watched as the two shuffled her a few feet away from the cell. "Frank Boles." He produced his hand as if to shake hers. However, with her arms restrained behind her, he dropped his hand and laughed at his own muted joke.

"Hey Frankie!" Aisling was shocked to see that Harley was awake. "Where ya' takin' her?"

"Mind your own damn business, Quinn," Boles shot back. Stepping behind Aisling, he produced a pair of handcuffs from a pocket and snapped them around Aisling's wrists. Once they clicked tightly around her flesh, he tapped the guards on the shoulders to signal that they could let go. As they released their hold on her arms, Boles snatched onto her arm and pushed her forward.

"Hey, be nice on the lady!" she scolded playfully. "You can't treat a woman like _that_!"

Boles huffed with an irritated sigh. "That's not why –ugh! Will you just shut up!"

"Just sayin'! If you wanna' gal', you have to smooth talk her –"

Aisling interrupted him before he could wake up every prisoner in the room with his yelling. "How about you just take me now, hm? I'm sure that this meeting was supposed have secrecy." Boles glared scornfully at her. Ignoring him, she turned to Harley. The woman had her round face pressed against the bars, distorting her features and pulling her eyes into almond-shaped slits. "Don't worry, we'll be back before you know it. Besides, if he does anything, I'll just smack him upside the head like I did to the other guy." As she expected, Harley broke out into hysterical giggles at hearing that.

"Great. Now that you got the fool laughing, everyone's gonna' wake up," Boles grunted. Using her arm, he steered her away from the cells and guided her towards the exit. By the time the mechanical door had opened, Harley's snickering had subsided and she was grinning broadly

"And no _smoochin_' on the first date!" Aisling inclined her head to see the clown waving at her before the doors shut behind her.

"Where _are_ you taking me?" she reiterated after a few moments. She perked a brow as she turned her gaze towards the man beside her.

"Intensive Treatment building. They have him locked up in a special cell on the fifth floor."

She frowned, her lips pursing ever so slightly. "Great," she muttered. "I bet it's cold outside, too."

* * *

><p>Aisling and Boles were instantly greeted the moment they opened the door to the Intensive Holding room. Unlike the other cell rooms, this one consisted of one square cage. It was kind of like the cell they had placed Hannibal* in the "Silence of the Lambs". The cell was situated in the middle of the room, barred all around and raised slightly above the floor like some sort of platform. However, unlike Hannbal's room where it was adorned with fancy furniture and elaborated decorations, this cell was no more intricate than the cells Aisling had been in. The cell contained a toilet that was crusty with foreign material and a bed that was as comfortable as a slab of concrete. Also, just outside of the cell was a medieval version of a stretcher. It was probably what they strapped the supposed "Joker" to when they were moving him. Aisling found it rather intimidating.<p>

"Boles, my man!." Aisling was unable to get a glimpse of the man's face. The dim lighting was behind him, creating a luminous silhouette of his slender shape. At first the man was sitting on his bed before he jumped up, practically _prancing_ as he approached the front of his cell. "I was worried that you _forgot_ about our little… _arrangement._"

Boles shoved Aisling forward hard enough that she stumbled. Once she regained her balance, she held her footing and stepped backwards. She managed to stomp on his foot and slammed her shoulder into his chest. It didn't hurt him, but she was able to push him back a little bit. "Knock it off," she hissed lowly. There was no way in hell she was going to be slapped around by this asshole. Sadly, her rebellious attempt wasn't very successful, considering he was about two times bigger than her size.

He shook her by the arm before snapping her body against his chest. "Keep it up and I'll make _sure_ you stay locked in a cell," he snarled. His face was so close to hers that she could feel his hot breath ghost against her ear. For an instant she panicked, almost smashed her head against his. But before she could react, the suspicious fellow interrupted.

"Is that _bourbon_ I smell? Have you been drinkin' on the job _again_, Frankie-boy?" His once jovial tone lowered to something darker, almost threatening. "You're _violent_ when you drink."

Boles scoffed at the mysterious man, oblivious to the menace in his voice. Aisling on the other hand, really, _really_ wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere that did _not_ include her and this Joker guy in the same room.

"So what? Someone's gotta' ruff up these ungrateful lowlifes."

"True… But _not_ when some of those '_lowlifes'_ are _mine_." Aisling found that she wasn't breathing and had to focus to keep her heart rate even.

She wasn't the only one affected by it, either. Boles silently gasped, his lips parting ever so slightly. Seconds passed before he broke the tension that hung heavily over them. "I brought her. Just as you asked." Aisling could hear him gulp, watched as his Adam's apple bobbed for those few moments. Past his hardened features, she could see the fear evident in his brown eyes.

"Oh _goody!_ I _knew_ you could do it, Jackie-boy!" Like that, the man's dark mood vanished, and he was bubbly once more. He hopped to his right, and gestured towards Aisling. "I hafta' tell ya', it's so… _difficult_ to make reservations with people in Arkham!"

"That so?" she asked after a couple moments. First he was buoyant, then menacing, and now confusingly giddy.

"That _**is **_so! The security in here doesn't allow me _any_ visitation rights! What about my adoring _fans_! What will they _think_ when they find out they can't see their _favorite_ villain! They don't even let me have a chat with my pal _Croc_! Nothing! Nadda', zip, zilch! None! It's _blasphemy_!"

"Why didn't you just talk to me during lunch? They seem pretty lenient with everyone when it comes to that," she noted.

The supposed Joker cackled loudly at that. "You're not giving me enough credit, my delicate little _Irish Setter! _I could do that, but then that wouldn't be _fun_. Plus, I have a reputation to uphold!"

"So… you thought shuffling me around in the dead of night to meet you was more… appropriate?" She was being incredibly rude, she knew, but at this point she didn't really care. One, she could easily turn around and run and two, there was a thick cell that divided him from her. Also, he just called her a freakin' _dog._

He laughed again, his voice so unnaturally high that she nearly flinched. "Why not? I heard you weren't much of a sleeper, anyway." Suddenly, he glared at Boles. "You can leave now. We'll be done in a little bit."

"Fine." With that, Frank Boles turned and headed towards the exit.

"Okay…" She paused for a few moments as the electronic door closed behind Boles. "Why did you want to see me?"

At last, the strange man tilted backwards and revealed himself in the light. His face was long, thin with high cheek bones and a prominently sharp chin. His skin was bleach-white, stretched and lined with stress marks that curved around his thin lips. His eyes were the colors of an intense green, almost as radiant as the color of his wild hair. His eye sockets were caked with black makeup, and the cherry-red lipstick stretched past his lips to the ends of his face. It was… _horrifying_ to see. It was humorous… It was creepy. It was fascinating but appalling at the same time. He was painted as a clown, but it was like seeing a personification of Death. She didn't know whether she should laugh or cry.

"Alright, so I have this _l__**ee**__-ttle_ problem. All I want to do if have fun. Assemble my own _gang_, throw _parties_, strategize _robberies_, murder and create mass _chaos_... But this guy, _Batman_, keeps… _interrupting_. _Foils my plot, knocks me down, and __**drags**__ me to this asylum!_ At first it was fun, being captured, then breaking out to get captured… But like all jokes, it became _dry_."

"And this has to do with me how?" Aisling couldn't interpret the man's emotions. It was like he was having mood swings _while_ he was talking. One moment he sounded coy, the next he sounded annoyed. She desperately wanted to ease her frustration by rubbing her face with her hands, but they were still handcuffed behind her back.

"But I digress. I have a special _plan_ for our costumed hero. And I need people to carry out party orders."

"So you need people to do your bitch-work."

He chuckled, another demented smile playing on his lips. "I wouldn't say _that_. Working with me can have _great_ _benefits_! And bad, if you count agonizing torture, severe injuries, possible 3rd-degree burning, high possibilities of _death_... But hey, who thinks about those!"

"Huh. Let me ask you something. Er, Joker, right? Harley said you had a big plan, and from the looks of it, she wasn't being… _entirely_ delusional. You seem to have a hand-full of guards on your side, explaining how you were able to get me here, but I doubt you have the entire security 'under your thumb.' My question is this: how much longer do you think you can pull this charade before the uncorrupted guards catch on? How about the video camera that's recording every second of our conversation?" Saying that, she jabbed her thumb towards the small recording device that was hanging on the wall. "What exactly are you going to do about that?"

The Joker laughed again, this time clutching to his stomach as if he was in pain. "My, my, what a sly _minx_ you are! I like you." The next instant his wild grin was gone, and he was frowning at her. "Some of Jackie-boy's buddies are working in the security room. Any info regarding to this itty bitty conversation is _strictly_ confidential. I've got everything handled, don't you worry! That is, unless you _decline_ my offer."

"And if I did decline?"

That seemed to have silenced him. The green-haired man detached himself away from the bars and backed to the foot of the mattress, shrouding his face in darkness once more. She watched as his brown knickers padded across the cold floor, his gloved hands swaying by his sides.

"If you did… Then the docs will be performing your autopsy before my celebration even _begins_." His back was straight, shoulders rolled slightly forward. He was a predator that was ready to pounce. "So what will it be, hmmm? Yes… or _no_."

Behind her, Aisling could hear the electronic door open, Bole's shoes clunking against the tiled floor as he approached her. She felt his fingers graze her shoulder. She turned around and nodded towards him, signaling it was time for her to leave. She was done with the Joker, she told herself. As she was escorted towards the exit, she glanced over her shoulder. He was still watching her, waiting silently for her answer. His green eyes were bearing into her shoulders like knives. When she stepped into the doorway, she spoke.

"No thanks."

_I'll take my chances._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note<strong>__:_

_... *hiding from my laptop*_

_Don't kill me, I tried my hardest to make Joker sound like himself! I literally sat down and re-read everything and tried to imagine if he would actually say it! DX I know it's not perfect, hell, I know I'll never be able to make him perfect! I really, __**really**__ hope I did OK with his dialogue…_

_ *awaiting troll-bricks to fly through the computer screen and hit me*_

_Also, I'm sorry that I didn't have much more to this chapter. There really isn't anything else that could coincide with this. DX Anyway, I love all of ya' that are reading these stories. It means a lot to me . _

_~Sly-TazZ_


	8. Chapter VII: Reminiscing

_**DISCLAIMER: **__ DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. What I CAN claim, however, are my OCs. Also, they will own my life when Arkham City comes out… Just saying. _

_Psht, I also don't own *spoiler* anything *spoiler* from *spoiler* Monopoly *spoiler*_

**Hymn for the Killers and Liars**

/Chapter VII: Reminiscing/

Fifth interview with Ms. Young, and Aisling was enjoying herself quite a bit. Perhaps a little too much. Unlike the other interviews that Ms. Young had with patients whereas they would explain their thoughts and past, Aisling had her steering across a loophole of absolutely nothingness. Every time when a personal question was popped up, it would be warped into some random fact that Aisling thought of from the top of her head and switched the topic entirely. The notebook that the doctor held close to her chest was written with invisible paragraphs and nonexistent notations. In fact, the pen wasn't used as a writing utensil, but pounded against the paper continuously like a drummer's stick.

"Couldn't you just answer one of my questions with a _simple_ response!" Ms. Young cried, her cheeks a rosy tint with frustration. It was surprising that she hadn't used her notebook as a projectile to throw yet.

Aisling rolled her shoulders, almost attempted to place her hands behind her head again. "That's the thing: I _do _answer them with simple responses, my _white-coated companion_," she replied. "You're just upset that my answers having nothing to do about what you want to write about."

Yeah, she was enjoying these interviews a bit _too_ much, considering she even went as far as giving the doctor a nickname.

"Is that why you won't answer my questions Aisling? Because you think that I'm going to write about them?"

"No. Frankly, I don't give a _damn_ about what you write about Ms. Young."

"Then _why_ _not_?"

Another shrug. "You're looking for a life full of adventure and excitement, Ms. Young. You want to hear experiences that reveal who I am. And to tell the truth, my life is rather _bland_. The only thing you'd get from it is that I really, _really_ hate the color 'white', which isn't a color, actually."

Wow, were some of Ms. Young's glares nasty. This one in particular was mixed between frustration and raw anger. "Don't you understand that I want to _help you_, Aisling?"

"By what? Writing some sort of _scam_ that depicts how tragic my life is? By writing me a prescription so I can take pills every day that could supposedly help? Or is the best part when you finally distinguish what type of _mental illness_ I have, hm? Am I a _schizophrenic_ like all of those pages have written about me, or am I actually _bi_-_polar_?" Her words were heavy, should have been laced with hatred. Yet as she spoke, her voice was inexplicably light, as if her conversation was like talking about the weather.

The doctor was speechless.

"Forgive me for startling you so," she added when the doctor was unable to give a reply. "I'm afraid I've been in mental hospitals for too long, you see. After a while, all of you doctors are the same to me, people dressed in the same ridiculous outfit and persistently asking the same questions." She sighed, felt the need to rub her forehead with the palm of her hand. "You want to hear about my past? Fine, I'll tell you something…

"When I was thirteen, I was transferred to St. Andrews. Before that, I lived in an orphanage. The owner, a woman by the name of Margaret Zias, personally signed the final papers. For the first three years, I was monitored by a young woman named Angelica. I don't believe she was a doctor, but was like an assistant nurse. She would check up on me every day, ask how I was feeling and if I needed anything. Sometimes she would sneak a board game or paper and colored pencils into my room, and we'd play or draw for hours.

"Before you ask, yes, there were papers about all of this. There were the documents of the orphanage and of my first years in the hospital. I think Angelica even made a few records about me. However, most of them were destroyed when management in St. Andrews changed. Mr. Krutchangas (I'm sure you've met him) had hired someone to be the warden of the hospital, Joseph Jean, around the time when I was almost sixteen.

"The moment that that man became the warden, he eradicated every file that the hospital had on all of its patients and employees. He filtered through data, destroying what he saw fit, fired off half of the workers. I suppose he thought that the place needed to be 'cleaned up'. Of course when he fired so many people and deleted so much data, new workers had no idea what to build up on for any of the patients. You can imagine the disarray; how problematic it was when patients were not given the appropriate treatment, missing their proportioned medication…

"But I digress. The point being that St. Andrews changed entirely after that man was appointed warden. Anything that might have indicated I had a life before St. Andrews is gone."

It surprised Aisling that Ms. Young did not record anything in her notebook. Sure she had her little recording device lying on the desk top, but the doctor was the type of person to write it down nonetheless. She was absorbing everything that she was told, and it was minutes before she spoke. At last, she relaxed her face, her pursed lips falling to a straight line, and she placed her notebook softly on top of the desk. "That's why there is so little information about you? Because this Mr. Jean simply threw it out?"

"It wasn't just my information, Ms. Young. He destroyed all of the information about _every_ patient in St. Andrews."

"But there are still your memories, correct? You still must remember your life before you were admitted."

Aisling hazel eyes seemed to glaze over for a few moments. The specks of green and blue appeared dull as her gaze fell to the tiled flooring. "I suppose. But that was a while ago, you understand." As her eyes flitted back to the doctor, they appeared different, hardened. "And I was a child. I was mature for my age, but a child nonetheless."

"What do you mean?"

"Children have a very strong imagination. Anything I remember may not a fragment of a memory, but rather an exaggerated story I made up."

"And what of this Angelica? You said that she monitored you for the first three years?"

"What of it?"

"It sounds like she was no longer part of hospital after that. Was she some of the few that were fired?"

"In a way. J-Jay... he did a lot of other things, Ms. Young... Some of which that I don't prefer to speak of." For a split second, her composure failed and she visibly flinched. She attempted to recover, but it was too late.

The doctor noticed.

Ms. Young's once luminous blue eyes lost their focus. Her face was… sorrowful? _No, Ms. Young doesn't have time for sympathy towards her patients,_ Aisling thought to herself. It was a look of understanding. The next moment she composed herself, clearing her throat and glancing at the recorder. "I believe that's all for today, Aisling," she stated as her thumb pressed against the red button. With a soft _click_, the recorder stopped and she pocketed it. The chair creaked slightly as she got up from her chair, the notebook leaving the desk and snuggly pressed between her arms and her chest.

"As you say so, doc," she replied.

She was leaning against the doorframe when the doctor paused to glance behind her. "And thank you," she whispered, so soft that Aisling _almost_ didn't catch it.

* * *

><p><em>It was difficult to explain, but Angelica always somehow had this ability to make her surroundings appear brighter. It was like her precense made the world lighter, made the room feel happier once she stepped through the door frame. It wasn't just during the day either. Later in the evening she would sneak into Aisling's room. When she did, Aisling was convinced that another sun was rising the moment she watched her blond curls slip past the doorway. One day when Angelica entered, she had something pressed against her back with one hand. The lights reflected off her eyes like silver, playful and mischief. "Hey," she whispered once she shut the door. "Guess what I got?"<em>

_ Aisling struggled to speak and could not find the confidence to use her voice. Instead, she tilted her head curiously._

_ "I was raiding the storage room when I stumbled upon a rather interesting set of board games. Now, we aren't allowed to let anyone play these, but then why would they have them? To gather dust?" She giggled at her own joke, her smile so contagious that Aisling had to smile too. "So... I grabbed one and thought we could have our own secret game. What do you say?"_

_ The dark-haired girl nodded, and felt the familiar drums of excitement pulse through her fingertips._

_ Angelica grinned broadly before she hopped towards Aisling. With a soft _thump_ she plopped onto the floor and pulled out the box that had hidden behind her back. Aisling was sitting on her bed, but she was able to see the word _Monopoly_ as the container was placed on the floor. Jumping off of the creaky mattress, she seated herself in front of Angelica with her legs folded underneath her._

_ "Awesome!" she exclaimed. "Okay, so this game is called 'Monopoly'. It's a money game where you move along the board and try to get as much property as you can. Have you ever played this game before?"_

_ Aisling nodded once. "Y-yes," she muttered softly, visibly flinching at her own voice momentarily. She rarely spoke around people and her voice was unsettling. "I played it once before."_

_ Angelica smiled. "Oh, that's good," she replied. "I'm horrible with explaining the instructions, anyway. Alright then –" With that, she opened the box and pulled out the playing board. After unfolding it, she placed it on the floor and began to assort the cards. "Who do you want to be?" she asked as she plucked up a couple of the figures. "Want to be the dog? How about the flat iron? Ooo, how 'bout the bowler hat?"_

_ The dark-haired girl scooped up the thimble, rolled it in the palm of her hand before she placed it on the GO space. "I'll take this one," she declared in a soft tone._

_ "Ah, the thimble. The object that represents the innocence of a kiss," Angelica chuckled, her cheeks all dimply._

_ "I don't know what –" Aisling's voice cut short, and she dipped her head down as her cheeks flared with embarassment._

_ "Tell me, have you seen _Peter Pan_ before?" When she received as shake of a head as a response, she made an odd clucking noise with her tongue. "Hrm, then I guess that's another thing I need to show you. _Then_ you'll know what I'm talking about!" Another playful smile danced on her lips and she glanced inside the box. "Alright I'm going to choose… the dog. Now the money…" Within the next moments, she was assorting the money between the two of them._

_ A half hour passed, and the game faired evenly between the two of them. Angelica had managed to buy two of the three cards for at least three different sections of the board and managed to land on Boardwalk. Aisling had fewer properties, but she had three of the trains and both the Water Works and Electric Company. It was Aisling's turn, and she rolled a seven, taking her straight onto Free Parking. She couldn't resist the smile of satisfaction and she scooped up the 500 dollar bill (along with at least four of Angelica's 'tax' payments) and assorted them into her pile of cash._

_ "You lucky goose!" Angelica huffed as she pressed her chin across the palm of her hand. She was lying on her stomach, legs folded and swaying in the air. "This is the second time you've managed to land on that spot!"_

_ She giggled, covering her mouth with her slender hand. "I'm not the one who has a third of the board," she replied. "It's to help me when you buy hotels and bankrupt me."_

_ "Haha, yeah right! I'll be broke soon enough if I keep having to pay the taxes." Her laughter was so bubbly. "Wow, you're kicking my butt at this!" With another sigh, she shook the dice before dropping them onto the middle of the board. As she moved her tiny dog across the board, she asked, "When was the last time you played?"_

_ The girl shrugged. "Some of the kids played it a few times at the orphanage. Sometimes I would just sit back and watch. Then they let me play once."_

_ "Really? What happened?"_

_ It was a very faint, sad smile when it appeared on Aisling's lips. "I was beating them. They got mad and accused me of cheating. After that, they didn't allow me to play again."_

_ "What?" she exclaimed with a look of shock. "Why on Earth would they accuse you of something like _that_? I bet they were just mad because you're obviously better than them."_

_ "I guess." Aisling focused on how the dice seemed to roll in her enclosed hand before they fell to the floor._

* * *

><p>They moved Joker to his cell just after breakfast, and Crane wasn't sure if it was a good thing. It wasn't like he was placed right next to Crane's cell, or like he was close enough for him to be able to see him, nor was it a bad decision on the asylum's part. Like Crane, he was being locked in the secure section of the penitentiary. What bugged Crane was the guard's failure of actually keeping him "locked in". Joker was always assigned to one of these cells before he somehow managed an interesting escape. Whether it was from the chaos as several homicidal killers broke loose or he just simply snapped the patrollers' necks before sneaking off the island, the guards were so dim-witted to try place him somewhere else.<p>

His icy eyes did not leave the small book that he held open in his lap as the infamous clown passed his cell. Well, in truth he _rolled by_, much to Crane's amusement. How they managed to restrain him to that medieval stretcher, he had no idea. He was unable to resist the urge to smirk, the corner of his pearl lips curling upwards.

As usual, the man somehow had himself into hysterics. "_Easy boys!_" he cried in between his giggles. "Don't want to hurt the _merchandise!_ Harley would be _very_ upset!"

A guard barked over his maniacal laughter. "Just get in your damned cell, clown! We've had enough of you!"

Joker exaggerated a sudden gasp. "Had _enough?_ Of _me_? You _wound_ me with your cruel words!" As the sounds of a metal gate opening, Crane could vividly imagine them shoving the green-haired man into his cell. Once more his laughter echoed off of the walls of the asylum, intertwining with the noise of the door slamming shut. He made an exasperated sigh and Crane could imagine him press his lean body against the bars, his long arms outstretched and linked together in front of him. "What can a guy do to get some decent _respect_ around here? _Sheesh_!"

Crane blatantly ignored that opportunity to speak. Instead, he immersed himself into the book that lay on his lap. The bed creaked loudly underneath him as he adjusted his legs, folding the one on top of the other.

Joker, on the other hand, was muttering to himself now. "You'd think that I would have some sort of _leverage_. I mean, _come on_! I'm the devilish, handsome clown that _everyone _adores!"

"Don't _flatter_ yourself, Joker," Crane echoed, icy eyes making an invisible path across the lines of text before him. "You're no different from everyone else in this asylum." The quality of his tone was firm and matter-of-factly, much like the blank expression that played across his features.

"Ah, _Scarecrow_… How's my _favorite _doctor feeling today?"

"How am I _feeling_?" He paused briefly, folding the corner of his page before shutting the book. "As anyone would feel in this situation. I'm locked in a _cell_ and in an _asylum_ that smells of sweat and _stale_ _piss_. I'm _surrounded _by deranged and homicidal maniacs, and the only thing I can look _forward_ to is to be scrutinized by arrogant _fools_ like Young, or be _fed_ nauseating food..." He placed the book beside him, his crystal eyes illuminating with rage. "Forgive me if I sound too derisive."

The Joker cackled in amusement, the _pinging_ sounds reverberating off of the walls as he slapped his hands against the metal bars. "Aww, don't be such a _'stick in the mud'!_ Besides, the food isn't _that bad! _My favorite is the _chili_ because I feel like I have my own little _Clayface!_" Once more, he broke out into hysterics.

Crane's expression twisted in disgust. "And that's supposed to make me feel any better _how?_" he grunted. For a brief instant, he was mortified at the very thought of Clayface being on his food tray.

"_Lighten' up, doc! _You're almost as insufferably _boring_ as Young is. It must be a _doctor's _thing, with you being so… _uptight_ all the time." His jovial tone became gravely, and he was nearly grumbling at the end of his statement. In that moment he paused, and Crane wondered if the idiot forgot what he was talking about. "Y'know," he added after a long sigh. "You should make a _joke_ once in a while. _Laugh_ at something, even if it isn't really funny. You could even _smile! Like __**me**__!_"

Crane's perked a fine eyebrow as he listened to the buffoon's ridiculous laughter once more. Sighing inwardly, he pushed himself off of the creaky mattress and stepped forward towards the bars of his cell. The bars were cool underneath his touch. Leaning forward, he arched his head to the right to see the green-haired man also against his bars. His gloves hands clapped against each other as he exaggerated another sigh.

"_Anyway_… As _invigorating_ as our chat is, I'm kind of in a _hurry_. Have you seen Frankie-boy around? I have a _job_ for him."

Once more, Crane was unable to resist the constant nagging urge to question. "A… _job?_" He inquired, his tone pricked with curiosity. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that girl you spoke with in the middle of the night, would it?" Crane wasn't there to listen in to their conversation, but he was awake to see Boles escort the dark-haired woman out of the penitentiary. And, understanding that the corrupted guard worked for the Joker, he assumed that she was being taken to him.

He smiled menacingly. "How'd ya' know? Gee, it's almost like you docs' have a _six sense_, or something!"

"Who is she?"

"Who, my _Irish setter? _Oh, you'd _like_ her, doc. Witty, charming, has a tiny Irish _twang_ in her voice when she's annoyed… She even has these _dazzling _hazel eyes that could make any _man_ cripple to his _knees_… Oh yes, she's quite the _catch._" His voice seemed to draw deeper, almost purring from the back of his throat. His green eyes closed briefly, before snapping back open to gaze upon his fellow inmate. "But don't tell _Harley_, doc! Toots was never good with _competition_!"

As disturbed as the blue-eyed doctor was, his face was unnaturally composed. Pursing his lips, he slowly detached himself from the front of his cell and simply said, "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

><p>The butterfly knife was surprisingly small in Boles hand. He thumbed the hand, keeping it pressed against his hip so no one could notice. It was slender, the handle made of black rubber and had a small metal frame. The blade was made of stainless steel, at least four inches long and frightening sharp. It was cool, too, rubbing smoothly against his sweaty palm. He was heading towards the eastern section of the Penitentiary. It was where the cunning O'Haney's cell was, where they were taking her as she was just leaving her fifth interview with Ms. Young. It was also where a few guards were escorting some of the hazardous inmates through. They were heading towards the Medical Facility, or at least that was the destination.<p>

Boles had absolutely no idea how Joker could ever get his hands on such a weapon the butterfly knife he held in his hand. The clown was unstoppable, had no boundaries. He was locked in Arkham, yet that didn't limit him from somehow wreaking havoc.

The butterfly knife wasn't intended for Aisling. No, it was meant for one of the crazies. It was like clockwork, he figured, once you gave a weapon to one of the psycho inmates. The moment they have a blade in their hands, they are attacking anything and everything around them. Within moments they're drenched in some poor bastard's blood.

Joker didn't explain why he wanted this to happen, but Boles could guess. Whatever Aisling had told him only those few nights before set something off in that wacko brain of his. And this knife? Well, if Aisling is lucky, it will be lodged in her stomach instead of her eye.

_If_ she's that lucky.

_**Author's Note**__:_

_ Bwaaahhh I'm sorry it took so long DX! I was so determined to write a chapter at least every week, then… Well, school started! Yay! But… not so yay to homework. I mean, yeah it's fun, but it takes so freakin' long… but ignoring that, I'll skip to info typing, spamming and, of course, my chapter THANK YOU! :D_

_Ohmegod, thank all of you sooo much for your feedback! I was so worried that I was going to be bricked hate-mail when I made the dialogue for Joker! So, bunches of thanks to Shadow knight1121, JanEyrEvanescense12, aikeokilla, ShadowCat98 and of course eye of the divine! You guys rock!_

_Now… *brushing shoulder off* let's be done with mushy, and let's head to the story. Okay, so obviously the Joker has something planned for Aisling, lol, like everyone figured. I don't think the story could be quite as entertaining if I didn't write how the Joker was going to get his way. Also when I was writing this chapter, I was thinking about Crane and how he would play in this story. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely loved the Scarecrow in the video game. But I felt he wouldn't converse with Aisling that well, especially if he's constantly yelling "WHAT DO YOU FEAR?" all the time. So, instead of just thinking about the Scarecrow from the game, think the Scarecrow also from the recent Batman movies that Cillian Murphy acted for. Not only was he freakin' amazing, but… he's also not that bad-looking…_

_Lol, I'm gonna get off of this before I start sounding like a squeamish fan-girl. Thanks for reading this and I loves feedback! :3_

_~Sly-TazZ_


	9. Chapter VIII: Cat and Mouse

_DISCLAIMER:__DC Comics and Rocksteady owns everything, not me. What I CAN claim, however, are my OCs. Also, they will own my life when Arkham City comes out… Just saying._

Hymn for the Killers and Liars

/Chapter VIII: Cat and Mouse/

* * *

><p>"<em>Kill Aisling. If you kill her, I'll give you anything you want once I am on top…."<em>

James Delore accepted, and had every intent to kill the new inmate. It would be easy, he thought, as Joker told him the plans. It would be brilliant. James would be transferred from the Medical Facility, including Boles. Boles would ask for assistance, and get a hold of the guard that happened to be moving Aisling to her cell. Knowing how trustworthy the guards were of Aisling being rational and knowing how they didn't see her as a threat, the guard would bring her back with him. When the guard and Aisling eventually would meet up, Boles will slip James a weapon. He would then leave and lock down the facility.

When the facility was locked down, then James could have fun.

Who would have thought the Joker would be so _generous_ to give him a knife. Oh, how James _loved_ knives. They were so _quick_, so _smooth_ in his hands. They carve through skin so gloriously.

Getting out of the straps was a little tricky. This was where James had to be a little creative; come up with something that the Joker or Boles couldn't help him out with. He decided to attack when they were in the middle of removing him from the bed to cuffs. He had to time it perfectly. He slipped the knife into the back of his pants when they didn't notice. After they had released his shoulders, and were about to strap his wrists, he then snatched the blade, flicked it open, and sent the blade into the face of the first guard. The butterfly knife worked beautifully, slipping underneath that tiny plastic protector and into his face.

The guards were too shocked to react as the guard had screamed. It was timed perfectly, because as the guard fell to the ground, the loud alarms sounded. Red lights flashed above the doors, and a resounding _clunk_ rung in the air as the automatic locks securely shut all of the main doors. James smiled viciously as he dropped onto the fallen, bleeding guard, and sliced his throat.

_She _screamed then. James wanted to laugh because it sounded so _girly_. Any peep he had ever heard from her was a sour mumble. He didn't think that Aisling even had that movie-star-actress scream like all the other girls did.

The guards' brains finally started to click. They turned to James and attempted to bring him down, three to one. But none of them could stand against James and his extraordinary handiwork. The blade in his hand glided effortlessly across the guards skins. He knew exactly where the spots those bullet-proof vests and their helmets couldn't hide; couldn't protect. He stabbed underneath the vests, into their spines. He nicked at the tender spots behind their knee caps, and made them drop to the ground. But he kept the final killing the same; the easiest considering what they wore: a carving across their jugulars, extending from one collarbone to the other.

And Aisling. Well, the young girl seemed quite frozen as he butchered the guards. By the time he was slicing the second neck, she had finally realized that she had legs, and began running down the closest corridor near her. He felt his grin widen when he watched her body bob away. He was going to have so much fun with this. He had his favorite weapon, doing his favorite job. Not only that, but he was going to have a lovely game of _Cat and Mouse_ with a deranged, but attractive female. He oh so loved these games.

To add to this perfection, he was also aware of where Aisling was going. Like all hallways in this retched Facility, it was leading to a dead end. The only exits were through the main doors, which Boles had successfully locked down. There was no way she could escape, so that meant he could have all the playing he wanted with her.

So, head held high and a determined smile, James left the bleeding corpses of the guards and began down the hallway. He followed her loud steps, and steered himself towards the dead end she would soon find. Oh, how he couldn't wait! What would she do the moment she realized that she couldn't escape from him! Would she attack him, attempt to defend herself? Would she beg (oh, how he liked that idea!)? Would she drop to her knees, beg for her life? He would loom over her, grab her hair, and twist her head back so she was forced to look up at him. He would keep her like that, and watch the fear blossom in her eyes as he ran the blade against her soft flesh…

At last, he had found that dead end he was expecting. At last, he would soon see how the young Aisling would move…

But it was not Aisling he had found.

Instead, it was Boles, his pistol aimed at James face.

"Boles?" James questioned, confused. Boles had left the facility and locked down the doors. How was it that he had entered? Had he tripped the alarm, and accidentally got himself locked in? "I thought you were going to 'blow this joint'?"

Boles had not removed his aimed pistol. It was… unnatural. James knew that Boles found not threat in him. His goal was to go after Aisling, not him. Why was he aiming that gun at his face. "Plans changed. Thought I'd stick around," he muttered.

Such strange sensations seemed to cloud James mind. He was seeing Boles in front of him, but he felt so _uncertain_. It was like he was unsure of his very eyes. "Aisling ran down this hallway. You see her?" he asked.

Boles shook his head. "No. Didn't see anything come towards this direction."

James hesitated. He swore that he saw the girl race down this hallway. Had he missed her take a different turn, and head down another hall? "You sure?" he questioned. There was a long, pregnant pause. James became acutely aware of the expression Boles wore. It was angry, annoyed; it was an expression he was accustomed to. Yet, it didn't appear to be the _same_.

"Better off lookin' somewhere else, James." Boles hoistered his gun to his waist. Again, James felt this strange sensation that something was off. The way how Boles hoistered his gun… it just didn't _seem_ right.

"Boles." Boles had begun walking past James down the hallway. He had meant to grab him by the arm; grab his attention. He couldn't describe the sensation he felt when he reached out and clasped onto Boles arm. His arm was firm; muscular. It was covered with the tight leather of his jacket. He expected to _feel_ these things, feel the strong muscles of his forearm, feel the smooth leather stretch across the length of his arm. But what he _felt_ was nothing like that. It was small, lean, but fragile. He could feel the plastic fabric protrude between the gaps of his fingers, could feel the cool air _whoosh_ ever so slightly as his grip's pressure squeezed it.

"What the –d" In James confusion, Boles had torn his arm away, separating themselves by a few feet. Boles mouth opened, but no words came. It was in that moment that James watch Boles _change_.

He was seeing Boles, staring right at him. A moment later, he seemed to have lost his color. It was like he was an actor in one of those old black and white movies. The next moment, the very image of Boles seemed to _fade_. In seconds, the body became transparent, and was replaced by a new body.

A woman's. Aisling.

Oh, how she ran then. James was just short of grabbing her before she sprinted down the hallway, her feet pounding against the floor. Thus, the chase began once more, and James chased after her. No more playing. Whatever had just happened was some _freaky_ shit. After James caught her, he would kill her. No more games. Whatever just happened, he knew it was her doing.

Vulnerable and without a head-start, Aisling was an easy catch. Around a corner and half a stretch of hallway was all it took before James was grasping Aisling's shoulders and tearing her backwards. So easy, he thought, as he slammed her into a wall. A cry of pain came forth from her mouth, pain flaring through her torso. He kept her there only briefly before slamming her again, then sent her agonized body to the ground.

Aisling groaned, fresh pain searing through her chest. The floor was unwelcoming, and she could feel her knees had been scuffed underneath her suit.

Run, her brain screamed at her. She reached out and started to crawl forward, but was jerked to her feet, James dragging her up the by hair. Fight. Aisling felt herself panicking, losing her sense of focus. She struggled in his grip, limbs flailing around in hope they would nick him. But her hits missed every time, and her attacker threw her to the ground. Her head collided with the floor, the impact vibrating loud through the halls. Along with another wave of pain, she was rendered blind, her vision warping and spiraling.

"Stupid girl." She could hear his voice, but could not make out what he looked like. He grabbed her by the arms and heaved her to her feet. He spun her around to face him. His face was a blur, but she could feel his hot breath pounding into her face.

"How the fuck did you do that?" He was breathing a little heavier from the excursion. "That freaky mind shit. That why the Joker wants you do so bad?"

Aisling was relieved as he spun her back around and couldn't see him. Her vision was slowly returning. Meaning she could look for places to hide; exits.

"No," she answered. _No one knows. _ She could see how far the hallway stretched. A few feet away there was a set of rooms opposite of each other. Maybe she could break free, run down the hall, maybe find a room to hide in. "He wants to kill me because I wanted no part in his affairs."

James laughed obnoxiously, shaking Aisling's shoulders with him. "Now why the _hell _would you do that? The Joker _owns_ this place. You screw with him, you're dead!"

_Keep him talking._ Aisling knew that the hallway would be a dead end. That was what had happened the last time. Could she possibly pull off another plan like she had before?

"Why? How does he own the place?"

No, James was dumb, but he wasn't dull. He saw through her _ploy_ once, he would see through it the second. "It's cause he _owns_ the people here. Boles, Carthy… a fuckin' chunk of the guards will do everything he wants. Then the nutzos, well, he digs into their brains. Convinces them to join him, take revenge and all that shit. And the people like me? Well, there's good pay when destroying Gotham."

"Pretty noble speech there. I'd give you an award for that."

"Damn right."

_Click_. Her time was up. The switchblade was now open, lying ever so gently against her hip. She was hyperaware of everything; she could feel every fiber of her body. She felt currents of electricity pulse through her fingertips and toes. She was aware of how his body was pressed against hers; sensed the tense muscles in his arms. His body began to move; she could _sense_ the anticipation in his body to what he was about to do next. Her reaction was quick; didn't give him time to finish before she thrust her arm back, her elbow burrowing into his stomach. He gasped, releasing her, giving her the opportunity she needed. Breaking away, Aisling pounded forward, heading towards the only option that she could take.

Hide.

Her thoughts scattered the moment she began to sprint. She had no idea where she was at, where she was going. If there was a place to hide, it would have to do. So down she went, racing for an exit that wouldn't be. Behind, James cursed, momentarily incapacitated. It wouldn't be long though, and he would be on her tail just like he had been before.

Almost too soon did Aisling reach that dead end she knew she would find. She cursed, the panic that had welled inside exploring forth. What was left in front of her were a set of doors and a wall.

_Move_

Veering to her left, Aisling neared to a door and grabbed the handle. She tore it open and threw herself into the room, the door slamming behind hier. Her heart was pounding, a powerful drum was thrumming in her head, The door was unnaturally cool to her back as she pressed against it, slowly sinking to the chilly tiled floor

_Think._

She wanted to press her hands to her face, physically push herself from the conflict she was in. She wanted to fade away, drift to somewhere in the back of her head where she was safe. But she couldn't. The moment she gave in, James would kill her. She had to act… She had to defend herself…

Her eyes drifted upward. She had to barricade the door. Her legs cried out in pain as she went to stand. If she survives this, she told herself, she had to start running. Being in an asylum most of her life had made her lazy.

To be expected, there was little décor in the room, or at least enough to barricade something with. There was a desk in the middle of the room, assorted with paper and other materials. Behind was a small rolling chair. On the walls, there was a billboard, various tacks scattered across the face. To the back there was what looked like a vent, barred shut with bolts. The metal filing cabinets were situated against the walls.

Prospecting the cabinets, she knew that they were the best option. She found a spot between a cabinet and the wall, placing the cabinet between her and the doorway. Then, steeling herself, she pressed as hard as she could against the cabinet. Shit it was heavy. It was unsuccessful at first, but after a few repositioning and using the wall as a kickboard for her feet, she felt the cabinet ease into her motion. It creaked as it began to tip ever so slightly off of two feet before slamming onto the floor with a large crash, papers spewing forth around the room.

It fell short than she had hoped for. When it fell, it had not landed directly in front of the door, but only a portion of it. Still, it was better than the rolling chair. That and she didn't have any time to find anything else.

The fall had left a distasteful ringing in Aisling's ears, yet she could not mistake the sound of James voice, nearing closer and closer outside in the hallway. "Stupid bitch!" he roared. Only a millisecond later did the office door Aisling had barely blocked began to shake violently, colliding against the metal cabinet.

Welp, she was officially trapped. The only thing to do now was to get a weapon. He would break in at some point. Or maybe someone would finally come… Oh what was she kidding? If they didn't come then, why would they happen to come now? "C'mon, c'mon Aisling," she hissed to herself as she explored the room. She approached the desk and examined it. It was a simple desk, one long drawer at the top. On the left, there was a set of three drawers, the right one large cabinet. She started with the top drawer only to find pens. She checked the others ,but only found more writing utensils and piles of writing paper. What was she going to do? Assault James with a bunch of paper cuts? She opened the large cabinet, panic beginning to bud in her stomach.

Wait, is that a paper cutter?

_Holy shit_, Aisling thought as she pulled the old sucker out and onto the floor. An _actual_ paper cutter. Somehow in this chaos there still was a little luck to spare for poor Aisling. She grabbed a hold of the handle and lifted the blade.

Meanwhile, James was continuously slamming into the door. The door groaned/as it was continually colliding with the locker, the wood beginning to crack, small chinks littering the floor. It was almost a coincidence because as he pounded against the door, the sound of the blade snapping from the cutting board was unheard.

She had a weapon. The blade was surprisingly light, like a misshapen machete. In her head, she had imagined it harder to swing, and James would tear it from her hands before she could swing at him. No, it was smooth and a soft _whoosh_ in the air when she swung it.

She had a chance.

The door was weakening. The wood cried louder and louder, the cracks widening longer and longer. A large chunk broke off and flew towards Aisling. Her heart seemed to freeze as she watched the piece roll at her feet.

_Crack! CRACK!_

Aisling looked with horror at the frail door that separated her from James, from her imminent death. _I'm going to die. _With sudden realization, she knew she didn't stand a chance.

The next moment, Aisling was running to the vent. Her fingers closed around the edges, and she began tugging at it. It was useless, what with four bolts still intact to the wall, but she kept pulling. She was thriving on pure adrenaline, fear, and the focusing on the primitive instinct to flee. She couldn't fight him, couldn't fight. Had to run, had to –

The door gave with a defeated cry, the door snapping in half. James shoved himself through the opening, jumping over the fallen locker. She turned her gave in time to see him rushing towards her, and jumped just out of his grip. A scream erupted from her mouth when he reached at her again and caught her arm.

"You little bitch!" She had managed to slither out of his grip, but at the loss of her balance. She stumbled backwards, vulnerable to James next attack. James swung the knife at her. She brought her arms up and felt the knife cross her forearms, a trail of fire licking the trail of the blade. She screamed again, feeling warm liquid run over the line of fire that seemed to scorch her arms.

The next instant she was on the ground. _The blade, the blade!_, a part of her brain was commanding her. She turned to glance at the weapon that she had somehow forgotten she held, only to realize it was no longer in her grasp. She must have dropped it when she fell, for it lay a few feet behind her.

_Move!_ Propping on her hands and feet, Aisling crawled backwards as fast as she could. James was pursuing, and was only a few inches short with the blade. When Aisling got close to the blade, he kicked it out of her grasp. He grabbed her by the hair and tore her upwards, forcing her to her feet.

"Thought you were being smart, huh? Thought'd ya' could hide –"

Aisling threw her arms around her, hands stinging as she made contact. In her blindness she must have somehow managed to get him in the stomach, and was momentarily released. The momentum of her struggles sent her to the floor again, and she crawled away, her eyes searching for the cutting board blade. Red had begun to streak her left eye, her forehead feeling unnaturally damp and hot.

James dove forward, his grip tightening around her and with one swift jerk, he tore Aisling's hands and feet from beneath her and her head hit the ground with a harsh thump.

_Shit, SHIT, SHIT! _A scream erupted from Aisling, reverberating off the walls and rang in her own ears. She was so close! Using her free foot, she began kicking at him. Again and again, she thrust her foot at him, clashing her heel into his shoulder or chest. It was almost to no avail, that is, until her heel collided with his cheek. Oh, how hot the pain was as it soared up her leg. But it was the blow that had her released. The next moment, she was on her feet, the cutting board blade in her hand.

But he kept coming. Yet… everything began to slow. She watched James recover from the blow, jump to his feet. His eyes were filled with hot anger, so feral and venomous that it should have frozen Aisling to the spot. But she was hyper-aware again, feeling everything around her. She could _feel_ the blade in her hand, feel its odd aura linger around her hand. She could _feel_ her muscles tingling, could distinguish areas where her skin was brusing.

As he neared, she felt her hand raise slightly, the blade's aura trickling up her tendons. She angled object in her hand, the blade angled forward. As he got closer and closer, her hand moved back; preparing.

He lashed at her; she watched the knife aim towards her neck. It was then the aura surged through her arm, and she swung. She did not hear the noise, but watched as the blade embed itself in James gut. She _felt_ the impact race up her arm as the force of her moving body met the blade, his force overcoming her own and sending them both backward.

They were on the floor, tangled in each other limbs. James lay on Aisling, motionless. The force of his weight pressed hard into her chest, making it difficult for her to breath. Using what frail strength she had left, Aisling pushed him off of her. With a large groan, he rolled over, and revealed to Aisling the blade was lodged in his gut. Aisling must have been in shock, for she only stared at it with a blank look. She felt disconnected, and strangely thought that James' gut reminded her of a sliced watermelon.

Watermelon juice ran forth from the wound, circling around him as he lay on the floor. He was unnaturally still, except his hands seemed transfixed over the wound. His fingers twitched around it, as if an invisible barrier was preventing him from touching it. His lips moved, but no sound could be heard.

She was numb. Aisling pushed herself forward, and crouched next to James as he lay. Dark red stained the front of his shirt and slid onto his pants. Aisling could feel the liquid squish and slip between her fingers as she pressed her hands on the floor.

"Joker sent you. What's he planning?" It sounded like her voice, but she couldn't tell if she was speaking. In fact, the whole world around her seemed to rock from side to side, and she was a spectator and watching what was happening.

James coughed, thick watermelon juice running from his mouth. He smiled, the juice lining along his gums and at the base of his teeth. A small line had slipped from the corner of his lips and raced down his cheek.

"A surprise," he choked out.

"For who?"

His smile contorted to a look of agony, and it was a minute before he spoke again. "E-everyone. Surprise for G-Gotham. G-Get eh… everyone."

Her voice took a tone of urgency. "Where? When?"

In the mask of pain, Aisling saw the smile that he attempted to wear. "S-s-soon e-enough…"

James gave her one last look before his eyes fluttered shut.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors Notes:<strong>

Ahh… so you know that one author that started to write something, then suddenly disappeared? The one who kinda' left it on a cliffhanger, and never went back to it? Yeah, well, she's quite a dummy. She attempted to write this chapter, then found that every _single _time that she wrote it, she hated what she came up with. She allowed herself to get mad and drop the entirety of it, because her big dumb self couldn't figure out how to write the chapter and satisfy what she actually wanted to _write_.

So… that author _really_ apologizes. She is sorry that she wrote this, then kinda' threw her readers "under the bus" so to say, and didn't respond. She is terribly ashamed.

All she can say is that she is sorry, that life had swept her up and her anger towards this story had increased so much that she dumped it. She says that she still wishes to proceed, but only if her once readers would be willing to read. It has, been after all, a very _long_ while, and she would understand if her readers do not wish to proceed.

Dearest sorries and so forth,

_-Sly-TazZ_


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